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RAGWEED 


A WEST-WORLD STORY 



BY 


JULIA MACNAIR WRIGHT 



“ And judge none lost, but wait and see, 
With hopeful pity, not disdain. 

The depth of the abyss may be 
The measure of the height of pain 
And love and glory, that may raise 
The soul to God in after days." 


PHILADELPHIA 

PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION 
AND SABBATH-SCHOOL WORK 

1894 






COPYRIGHT, 1894, BY 

THE TRUSTEES OF THE 

PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION 
AND SABBATH-SCHOOL WORK. 


All Rights Reserved. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

Borrowed Capital 5 

CHAPTER IL 

Seeking a Family 19 

CHAPTER HI. 

Hard Lines 33 

CHAPTER IV. 

Ailsa Crathie’s Inheritance 50 

CHAPTER V. 

The White Flocks on the Hills 65 

CHAPTER VI. 

“An’ Vo’s Gwine Cha’ge Me!” 81 

CHAPTER VII. 

A ilsa’s_ Errand for her Lord 97 

CHAPTER VHI. 

How A Prairie Schooner Sailed 113 

CHAPTER IX. 

How Blest a Thing is Work! ^29 


3 


4 


Contents. 


CHAPTER X. 

PAGE 

In Nature’s Lap 14S 

CHAPTER XL 

The Celtic Soul 161 

CHAPTER XII. 

The Potency of Cousin Ida 177 

CHAPTER XHI. 

Realism and Idealism 193 

^ CHAPTER XIV. 

A Doll Stuffed with Sawdust 210 

CHAPTER XV. 

A Forlorn Hope 227 

CHAPTER XVI. 

A Thanksgiving 242 

CHAPTER XVII. 

How Father Came Home 258 

CHAPTER XVHI. 

Sis Establishes her Family 272 

CHAPTER XIX. 

David Asserts Himself 286 

CHAPTER XX. 

Arise, for This is Not your Rf.st 303 


RAGWEED. 


CHAPTER I. 

BORROWED CAPITAL. 

“ The vintage is ripe, 

The harvest is heaping, 

But some that have sowed 
Have no riches for reaping. 

T he fertile lands along the Missouri River, 
low-swelling hills and broad intervals, lay- 
under the glory of an October sun. Along the 
fences and roadsides ran a riotous splendor of 
golden-rod, helius, crimson blackberry vines, and 
low sumac, with leaves glowing in the light to a 
translucent red. The season had been early from 
the first heat in April, and now the corn stood in 
shocks, the pickers and the cider-presses were 
busy in the orchards, and the splendid tassels of 
the sorghum in their rich and ever-varied shades 
of brown were nodding to their fall as the cutters 
with sharp sickles passed along the dark-green 
rows, and the cleft stalks loaded all the air with 
a honey -sweet perfume calling multitudinous 

5 


6 Rag%veed. 

bees. Here the bluebirds flashed and fled along 
the fence-rails; there the jays clattered jubilant; 
yonder the pigeons preened in the sun ; and, 
sweeping down to meet their own dark shadows 
on the newly-harvested fields, the pirate crows 
called each other to their feast of first-fruits. 
Along the broad, smooth road traversing the 
prairie sped a lively, well-groomed young bay 
drawing a handsome new buggy. As they neared 
a rise of land around which a creek, seeking the 
distant river, made a horseshoe bend between 
well-wooded banks. Dr. Garth drew rein. 

“ There ought to be a very fine place, but — ” 

The “ but ” covered ruin, carelessness, and deso- 
lation expressed in a double block house going 
to decay, loyally accompanied in its progress ruin- 
ward by a little village of outbuildings. On the 
highest part of the ground between the house 
and the road a small crowd of people, a smoke, 
a slowly-moving mare, and the creak of a ma- 
chine suggested the occupations of the hour. 
“ They are boiling sorghum,” said Mrs. Garth ; 
“ let us drive in.” 

Turning up the lane beside a small dilapidated 
barn, they found scant room to pass some sections 
of black-oak log, wedges, and an axe, where some 
one had been riving shingles, which, fresh and 
ruddy, lay scattered about, yielding their aromatic 
odor to the sun. 


Borrowed Capital. 


7 


Where the lane ended in the house-yard there 
stood a primitive mill for grinding sorghum. The 
motive power was a discouraged-looking roan 
mare, attached to the grinder by means of a long 
green sapling to which she was harnessed at the 
collar. The creature unwillingly plodded in a 
great circle, urged thereto by an eleven-year-old 
girl armed with a switch and following close at 
her heels. Standing beside the grinder, a shock- 
headed lad supplied the stalks of sorghum, which 
were thrown to him from an adjacent pile by a 
younger boy. The greenish juice of the canes 
trickled from the mill into a barrel through a 
particularly dismal-looking piece of gunny-cloth. 
Just beyond the path trod by the dreary mare, a 
' big muscular fellow of sixteen with a hatchet in 
his brawny hand was converting a dry dead ap- 
ple tree into fuel for the brick oven under the 
long iron boiling-pan. A raw-boned, disheveled 
woman squatted on the ground watching, witch- 
like, the seething, bubbling, sticky mass in the 
pan ; her second self in miniature carried the ap- 
ple-tree fagots, and as needed thrust them into the 
oven. A dark, handsome, unkempt child of five 
stood aloof and looked on, superior, at the group 
of listless workers. 

As the buggy stopped no surprise or attention 
was manifested; there was a slow bucolic lifting 
of the eyes and then calm indifference ; if Doctor 


8 


Ragweed. 


and Mrs, Garth had alighted in a yard full of 
cattle, as much notice would have been bestowed 
upon them. Mrs, Garth went to the back of the 
box-buggy and took out a bag of red and green 
striped paper, 

“ Oh, you’re going to distribute candy, are you?” 
said the doctor. 

“ I’ll stir them up some way,” retorted his wife, 
and, placing herself near the path of the girl with 
the switch, she held out a stick of “ store candy.” 

It was accepted in friendly silence. The mill- 
feeder, the boy who supplied him with sorghum 
stalks, the wood-carrier, and the lofty little Olym- 
pian who surveyed like a baby Jove the labors of 
the rest, all received their saccharine doles without 
a word. Mrs. Garth paused by the wood-cutter, 
half smiled, and tentatively held out the paper 
bag. The young fellow, already grown to man’s 
estate, shook his shock of black hair and, laugh- 
ing, turned away. 

As Mrs. Garth passed around the group to the 
woman, a girl carrying the inevitable baby came 
from the house to be in the range of this unex- 
pected windfall of sweets. The baby rested fret- 
ting against its sister’s arm. 

“ He’s sick,” said the woman ; ” he’s had fever 
for three nights.” 

Mrs. Garth eyed with compassion the miserable, 
dirty little object. 


Borrowed Capital. 


9 


“ Why don’t you give him a nice hot bath and 
put a clean night-gown on him and let him lie 
quiet?” she asked. 

“ Oh, my young uns ain’t used to pamperin’ up, 
and, ’sides. I’ve got the sorghum to see to.” 

Mrs. Garth turned toward two other children 
who had kept at a distance — a boy of fourteen, a 
girl of nine. The boy sat on a box with his back 
to the others, and had neither turned nor given 
any sign ; he was splitting and trimming slender 
saplings into hoop-poles, several bundles of which 
lay piled on the ground beside him. The girl 
handed him a split sapling, which he fastened in 
a notch in the lowest branch of the tree by which 
he sat, and with slow, machine-like persistence and 
lack of interest shaved with a draw-knife, while the 
girl, with her hand on his shoulder, stood looking 
toward the strangers. As soon as Mrs, Garth 
turned toward her she picked up her dress-skirt 
and covered her face to her eyes. The woman 
coolly rose, took the bag of candy from the lady, 
and, going to the two, dealt out a mint stick to 
each. Coming back, she threw the empty bag 
under the boiler, remarking, ” Pope and Turk 
don’t never want nobody ’bout them!' 

“ Won’t your mare go around without being 
driven ?” asked Dr. Garth. 

“ No, she won’t. And ’taint our mare ; we hor- 
ded her of Mis’ Jonsing down by the brook.” 


10 


Ragivccd. 


“ What is that empty brick place over there ?” 
asked Mrs. Garth, intent upon getting information. 

“ That’s what we built for our sorghum-pan last 
year.” 

“ Do you have to get a new pan every year ? 
Does it burn out?” 

“ No, ’taint that, but las’ year we used Mis’ 
Morgan’s pan, an’ now she’s moved away, so we 
borried Mr. Gage’s, an’ we have to bile early, ’long 
of them wantin’ it. It’s a smaller pan than Mis’ 
Morgan’s, an’ so we had to brick up a new oven 
for it.” 

“ Do you own the house and farm ? It seems 
a good place.” 

“ Well, no, we don’t ’zactly own it ; we sort of 
borried it. I reckon it’s good enough if it was 
worked, but, land o’ gracious me ! he’s so lazy he 
won’t work enough at nothin’ to get any good out 
of it. He’s ciittin’ sorghum now, down in the 
field, an’ lettin’ us get plumb out while he stands 
gassin’ with whatever passes by. — Nance, you cut 
over to the field an’ tell your dad to hurry up some 
stalks if he means us ever to get done.” 

Nance, baby on arm, strolled off toward the 
field behind the hill. 

“The children are all yours, I suppose?” said 
Mrs. Garth. 

“ Well, no, they ain’t ; seven of ’em is, but that 
tall fellow choppin’, an’ that gal that’s drivin’, an' 


Borroxved Capital. 


1 1 

that little chap a-lookin’ on — he allays is lookin’ 
on, kind of scornful like, ’pears to me — them three 
is sort of borried.” 

“ Dandy is getting restless,” suggested Dr. Garth 
to his wife. 

With a merry nod all around, and a sudden 
smile that illuminated beyond sunshine the girl 
that was driving the dreary mare, Mrs. Garth 
sprung into her place in the buggy. As they 
turned down the lane, a lean little boy, speeding 
across a field, leaped, cat-like, on the fence and 
shouted, “ Da-a-a-vid ! Da-a-a-vid ! Sis sent me 
for our axe !” 

David, the big dark youth, waved his arm ; the 
boy tugged the axe out of the black oak and hur- 
ried off with it over his shoulder. The buggy 
turned into the road. 

“ Stop a minute — turn the wheel ; I have missed 
the opportunity of my life !” cried Mrs. Garth. 
The doctor, accustomed to her whims, obeyed. 
She sprung out, ran back to the woman crouch- 
ing by the pan, and said, 

“ Would you please tell me where you got the 
mill ?” 

“ We borried it from Uncle Mose Barr.” 

” Oh, thank you ever so much !” said Mrs. Garth, 
and the next minute was in her place by the doc- 
tor’s side. — “ I knew it could not be theirs,” she 
said ; “ house, children, horse, pan, mill, — every- 


12 


Ragweed. 


thing borrowed and a silver peal of laughter, 
fresh as a child’s, rang to the accompaniment of 
Dandy’s swiftly-beating hoofs and the whirr of 
the wheels on the level prairie road. 

“ There he is, cutting sorghum, a stalk in five 
minutes or thereabouts,-” said the doctor, pointing 
with his whip ; “ and there is Nance going to try 
the impossible task of hurrying him; and that 
gray-headed darkey on the fence is no doubt Uncle 
Mose Barr, who owns the sorghum-mill. What 
unutterable shiftlessness curses much of this mag- 
nificent land ! Look yonder at that expensive 
reaper standing out exposed to the weather the 
year round ; look at that barn, with a roof like a 
sieve ; see those cattle and horses that will winter 
out unsheltered ; there is a buggy and a spring wag- 
on, never housed. Yet, in spite of all this unthrift, 
some of them get rich — but not that class of ‘ bor- 
rowers.’ That family looked to me like ‘ movers ’ 
or ‘ wagon-tramps ’ settled for a time. See there, 
what corn ! Such harvests as this land is capable 
of producing! Just after the war I came through 
here, and these farms might have been had for a 
song. I thought all was sterile, worth nothing, be- 
cause it was entirely covered with a crop of rag- 
weed growing as high as one’s head. I thought it 
would produce nothing but ragweed. If I had 
understood the hidden possibilities, I might now 
be a millionaire.” 


Borrowed Capital. 13 

“ Some men’s sins go beforehand to judgment, 
and some men their sins follow after,” said Mrs. 
Garth. “ For my part, I have no very inordinate 
desire to have my steps dogged by a million as I 
move on to account. As for the ragweed, I am 
sure there mu.st be something useful in what is 
so abundant. I don’t believe God creates so much 
for waste. Something could be done with it if we 
were wise enough to find it out. There is plenty 
of it still. See that pasture.” 

“ Yes, it looks like a poor use of land. Do you 
know that woman and the ten up there struck me 
as ragweed too — human ragweed?” 

“ Value, eternal value, in them, if we could find 
it out,” said Mrs. Garth, and then she sank into 
silence, and then she sighed. Words are some- 
times spoken which we do not on the moment 
catch, but the mind gathers up their vibrations 
and translates them to us presently in their full 
force. So the eye catches sights, scarcely aware 
of their meaning, and after a time the brain corre- 
lates them and expounds them to us in their true 
significance. It was so now with Mrs. Garth. 
That vivid picture set in sunlight on the hill had 
attracted and amused her as a whole in its bald 
realism ; now fragments of it were evolved upon 
her mental sight, and she discerned in them pa- 
thos, tragedy, responsibility. The echo of her 
own voice came back upon her : “ Are we ready 


Ragweed. 


14 

to answer to God for our use of a million? 
Rather, can we answer with assurance for our 
use of an hour?” 

“ What now ?” said the doctor. He was used 
to these changeful moods. 

“ I am of those who see and do not under- 
stand — until afterward. I told you a few minutes 
ago, jestingly, that I had missed the opportunity 
of my lifetime, I missed up there more than I 
knew, and now I am gathering up what I over- 
looked. Those two under the trees apart — she 
called them by odd names, ‘ Pope ’ and ‘ Turk.’ 
The boy never turned around. I understand it : 
he did not hear our voices — he is a mute. And 
the girl — the instant I turned toward her, she 
gathered up her skirt across her face. I realize 
now what I saw of her face in a flash and what 
the action meant. The child has a hare-lip, and 
she is sensitive about it.” 

” Eh ? , Is that so ?” said the doctor, his pro- 
fessional interest waking up. “ Why, it ought to 
be cured. Every year will make an operation 
more difficult. How old did she seem to be ? — 
about nine?” 

” I should think so. And those three children 
who she said did not belong to her — they are 
of a very different strain. That big, suddenly- 
grown-up boy, with his dark, thin, heavy brown 
hair, and great black eyes, in which thought 


Borroived Capital. 1 5 

is only now slowly wakening, because his mind 
has been nearly dormant 'while his body outgrew 
it — he looked like a young buffalo, half-curious, 
half-belligerent. The little girl with the brown 
eyes and swarthy skin had a dreamy, wistful, 
poetic face, full of possibilities. The little fellow, 
said to be always looking on, was a splendid child. 
No ragweed about them but in the way in which 
they grow.” 

“You will make a romance about them, and 
have them all princes in disguise,” laughed the 
doctor ; “ but you are right : those three were of 
a very different breed. I wonder how they come 
to be there ?” 

“ She said she ‘ borried them,’ with the rest of 
her surroundings. I mean that they shall cross 
my path of life again, and that some day my 
wasted opportunity shall be under my hand once 
more.” 

Meanwhile work had stopped about, the sor- 
ghum-pan. The last stalk had been fed to the 
mill, and “ he ” did not appear with further supply. 
David had provided more than enough of dead 
apple tree ; “ Sis ” had sent for the axe, and he 
could not rive shingles, so he seated himself on 
the top rail of the fence; the mare was allowed 
to stand and doze ; Janet dropped her switch and 
approached David. For the first time in her life 
Janet had beheld a lady and a toilette. 


1 6 Ragivccti. 

That slender figure in a black silk grenadine, 
black gloves, black boots, a crimson crepe tie at 
the throat, and a black lace hat with a bunch of 
barberries at the side had been ineffaceably paint- 
ed on Janet’s brain. 

“ Oh, David,” she said, “ wasn’t she beautiful ?” 

“ No, she wasn’t. I hate her,” retorted David, 
cordially. 

“ Why, David ! Did you see her ?” 

“ Yes, I did — I saw she was laughing at us. 
We all looked very queer and funny to her, it 
seems. She came back and asked who owned 
the mill. She heard Sikey say that Sis had sent 
him for the axe. I reckon she has her own things. 
Oh, I saw her. There wasn’t as much dust on the 
sole of her shoe as those young ones had on. their 
faces. I never knew how ragged and dirty you 
looked till she held out that bag to you. I suppose 
she considered Bruce a curiosity, along of bare feet 
and rags. Oh, she is of one world, and we are of 
another, it seems. Yes, I hate her.” 

“ I don’t. I wish she’d come back. David, that 
is the way, just exactly the way, my cousin Ida 
looks, I am sure.” 

“ Your cousin Ida — bosh !” 

“ It is, I tell you. Oh, did you see her hat and 
her boots? And gloves every day! And what 
was her dress made of?” 

“ I don’t know and I don’t care. I wish I could 


Borrowed Capital. 1 7 

build a wall about us a mile high, so such folks 
could not get in and stare.” 

“ But, David, I’d rather — rather — be just like 
her,” 

“ Well, you can’t, and there’s an end of it. Look 
at us — look at them — and talk of being like such 
a high-flyer !” 

” Oh, David,” wailed Janet in dismay, “ have I 
got to be like her ?” and she pointed to the woman 
still sitting on her heels watching the boiling sor- 
ghum. 

“ No, you haven’t. Just wait, and I’ll kick out 
the whole lot.” 

” Do you suppose she lives over in the town, 
David? I wish I knew her name,” 

“ What good would it do ? Would you go and 
see her and be laughed at? Want to be made 
fun of?” 

“ She looked kind at me,” said Janet. 

” You don’t know her name, and I’m glad of it. 
You’d be going to see her next, barefooted and in 
your ragged frock.” 

Janet cast down her eyes, and her dark pretty 
face hardened into lines of fixed determination, of 
a kind that always discerns a way to its end and 
relentle.ssly pursues it. 

“ David, did you notice the buggy ? Bright 
yellow wheels and gear. Did you ever see one 
like that?” 


2 


Ragweed. 


i8 


“ No, I never did. Looked like a great whirl- 
ing snake-doctor ” — by which he meant a dragon- 
fly, and in his remark he had unconsciously ranged 
himself beside Hugh Miller, who had seen and 
commented on this resemblance long ago. 

Here “ he ” arrived with a white horse and a 
small cart-load of stalks. Once more a boy hand- 
ed over stalks, a boy fed the mill, Janet switched 
the sleepy mare, David chopped apple tree ; “ she ” 
crouched by the boiling-pan, dipped out molasses, 
and added fresh juice; the little girl fed the fire; 
the baby cried ; Nance shrilly sung “ by ! by! by!” 
Bruce looked on; Turk handed Pope saplings 
which he shaved into hoop-poles. 


“And all the pent-up stream of life 
Rushed downward in a cataract.” 


1 


CHAPTER II. 
SEEKING A FAMILY. 


“One after one they flew away 
Far up to the heavenly blue, 

To the better country, the upper day, 

And — I wish I were going too.” 

WEEK later, nine o’clock in the morning. 



the day glorious with sun and fragrance and 
all the wealth October garners from the subser- 
vient months. Dr. Garth was off on his rounds, the 
house had fallen into that careful order demanded 
by Mrs. Garth’s critical eye, and she was in her 
garden, deciding which of the plants should win- 
ter in her little conservatory. The gate opened, 
and a slim, dusty, barefooted girl with a weary 
step came toward the house-mistress. 

“Good-morning!” said Mrs. Garth; “do you 
want the doctor?” 

“ No ; I came to see you.” 

Mrs. Garth looked more observantly across the 
rose bush which she was despoiling. “And who 
are you, my dear ?” 

“ I’m Janet Hume. You saw me — don’t you 


19 


20 Ragweed. 

know ? — out yonder by the river, biling sorghum 
that day.” 

“ Oh yes, I remember ; and you have come to 
town to-day ?” 

“ David said not to. He says he hates you, and 
you were only makin’ fun of us ’cause we were 
all so dirty and ‘ she ’ borried all the things,” 

“ I was not making fun of you at all,” said the 
lady, with some compunction of conscience, re- 
membering her mirth. ” I did think the woman 
rather queer, but not you.” 

“ I said you looked nice and kind. David says 
he hates the sight of you, but I think you are just 
beautiful.” 

The least vain of women might not be indif- 
ferent to such praise as this, so spontaneous and 
hearty. Mrs. Garth regarded her guest with in- 
creasing favor, “ I am very glad that you had a 
chance to come to see me.” 

“ Didn’t have it, I took it. Got up this morn- 
in’ when the stars was shinin’, an’ afore there was 
a streak of red in the sky, an’ jes’ walked off” 

” You walked ! Why, it is ten miles ! you must 
be tired.” 

“ You b’lieve I’m tired, orful.” 

“And did you have any breakfast?” 

“ I brung along a piece of corn-pone. I et it.” 

“ Why, you poor dear little soul ! And how 
did you find me?” 


21 


Seeking a Family. 

“ I asked in a store where the folks lived with 
the buggy that had yellow runnin’-gear, an’ they 
said it was this house, an’ when I got to the gate 
I knew you, though you didn’t have the same 
things on. I most wisht you had. Them red 
and black things was what made you so perfec’ly 
lovely. You look tol’able in that blue frock, but 
I don’t like blue; ’f ever I get rich I’m goin’ to 
stick to red.” 

Any little rising of vanity evoked by her vis- 
itor’s first praises was novv thoroughly rebuked ; 
it was the black and red that was ” perfec’ly love- 
ly.” Mrs. Garth laughed. 

“And so you have come to visit me ! The first 
thing will be to get you thoroughly rested, and a 
hot bath will do that ; and then a nice little break- 
fast, and then we’ll talk, and in the afternoon I’ll 
take you home, or nearly home, in the buggy. 
You cannot walk back, that is sure. Come, let 
us go in.” 

She led the way into the house and up stairs to 
a little square room with lace curtains, and a carpet 
on whose gay flowers and scrolls Janet feared to 
tread. Sitting upon the side of a great white-china 
something, the lady turned two bright handles, 
and, as if by magic, a stream of hot and a stream 
of cold water poured into the china tub.’ 

“What’s that for?” demanded Janet. 

“ It is a bath-tub, and when I get the water 


22 


Ragweed. 


ready, here are soap, sponge, towels, comb, and 
brush. You can undress and jump into the tub, 
and wash and bathe as long as you like, and all 
the tired will go out of you, and you will feel 
fresh and comfortable. I have some clothes here 
that a little friend of mine left this summer, and 
you can put them on, for yours are dirty from 
your walk.” 

“ Is this a bath-room and a bath-tub ? Oh, 
jolly! ain’t I some now? My cousin Ida has a 
luxuriant bath-tub^ 

“ Oh, has she ? Well, when your toilet is made 
I’ll have a nice little breakfast ready for you, so 
when you are dressed come down stairs. You 
can let the water out of the tub by pulling the 
chain — see ?” 

The clock was striking ten when a metamor- 
phosed little maid in a pink gingham gown, black 
stockings, and buttoned boots came slowly down 
the stairs ; her dark hair had been washed, combed, 
brushed, and woven into a shining braid the ends 
of which fell in three soft round curls. Mrs. Garth, 
seated near a little tray holding sandwiches, a roll, 
a pear, and a glass of milk, realized that her self- 
invited guest was very pretty. 

” I emptied the tub and wiped it with the towel, 
and I rolled my clothes all up in a bundle,” said 
Janet with satisfaction. “ I guess David will stare 
when I tell him how nice you treated me. Da\ id 


23 


Seeking a Family. 

says you’re proud, and he never wants to see you 
again. I guess he’ll sing another tune when I 
get back. What an elegant house you have! 
just like my cousin Ida’s.” 

“ Does your cousin Ida live near here?” 

“ No, she don’t.” 

“ Have you ever been to see her ?” 

“ No ; she lives too far off. But I think about 
her, and I want to be just like her, if I could 
only begin. But we can’t be anything with those 
Bealses around. David says he means to kick 
them all out some day. I hope he will.” 

“ Where are your father and mother ? Who 
owns that place?” 

“ Our folks is dead. We used to live in Texas, 
but two years ago our uncle Hume died, and he 
left our father that place you were at the other 
day, and we started up here in a wagon, and 
mother died on the road. Then father never 
held up his head, and when we moved into the 
place he was sick and lay on the bed all the time. 
One day, along the edge of winter, those Bealses 
— all but the baby — that baby hadn’t come then — 
come along in a wagon an’ saw David, an’ we 
knew them, ’cause we had camped near them on 
the road, an’ they came in to see father, an’ Mis’ 
Beals said she’d stay an’ keep house an’ nuss 
father, and they stayed ever since. Father died 
that Christmas. Dayid says the Bealses haven’t 


24 


Ragivccd. 

any right there at all, an’ he’ll show them a 
thing or two next spring. David’s showed old 
Beals a thing or two already. One day old Beals 
told Bruce to fetch in some wood, and Bruce said, 
‘ No,’ an’ Beals hit him on the side of his head and 
upset him, and David just gave Beals a good one — 
he got him down and thrashed him ! You ought 
to seen him ! his fists flew !” Janet’s eyes glowed 
at the memory of her brother’s prowess. 

“And what did Mrs. Beals say to that?’’ asked 
Mrs. Garth, 

“Why, she just said if David was able to lam 
him, she reckoned he’d have to, an’ it would pay 
Beals up for some of the skites he’d give other 
folks.’’ 

“ Do you go to school ?’’ 

“ Yes, me and Turk go to school'. I love school 
and books, and I’ve got a book — a book of my 
own ’’ — this with great pride, “ The last leaf is 
gone. I wisht it wasn’t, so I could tell how it 
turned out. But I guess it turned out pretty well, 
for it reads like it up to that. I found it on the 
road-side.” 

“ Did you ? and what is the name of your 
book ?” 

“ ‘ The Ranger’s Bride.’ Oh, its elegant ! You 
made me think of some of it, your gloves and 
your hat, but you’re not so grand, of course — 
she wore diamonds and gold and velvet. Dear 


Seeking a Family. 


25 


me ! I’ve et up all your breakfast ! I didn’t know 
I was so hungry. Not one of those Bealses can 
read but Turk. David can, of course, and write, 
but David don’t care for school. He likes work 
when there’s any sense in it, but there’s no sense, 
he says, in working for the Bealses, and they owe 
us work, David says, for the place, so Bruce don’t 
do a thing, and I don’t do a thing, and David don’t 
do much, only mend up the house and fences a 
little. David says its all going to rack and ruin. 
Are all these things yours? Who is that a pic- 
ture of on the wall ?” 

“ That was a picture of me when I was a girl.” 

“ Land o’ gracious ! Weren’t you nice-looking ! 
lots nicer than now !” with the unnecessary frank- 
ness of one accustomed to savage life. “ Now, 
that picture is just exactly like my cousin Ida! 
f Could I ever be like that, do you think ?” She 
stood before the picture lost in admiration. 

Mrs. Garth leaned back and meditated on the 
chapter of life laid open before her. Three or- 
phans, real owners of a good but entirely neg- 
lected farm which had been taken possession of 
by a family of idle and dirty “movers,” those 
vagabonds of the mid-Western States, who, in 
slow-going, canvas-covered wagons, drift to and 
fro between Illinois, Colorado, and the Mexican 
frontier. Could any companionship be more disas- 
trous ? Was any obsession more unwarranted and 


26 


Ragweed. 


injurious ? The matter must be looked into ; this 
boy of sixteen, however rea*dy with his fists, was 
likely to be an inefficient protector of his own 
rights or of his younger brother and sister. Cer- 
tainly something must be done about it. Mean- 
while, Janet cruised about the room, examining 
everything, generally refraining from meddling, 
her tongue in perpetual motion, either in answer- 
ing questions or volunteering information. Had 
her father liked the Bealses ? Oh no ; he said 
just as soon as he got well they’d have to go. 
But then he didn’t get well. Her own mother — 
what was she like ? Oh, she was nice — real nice, 
and she had had a trunkful of things, but Mis’ 
Beals had cut them all up for herself and her own 
children. Had she ever seen the uncle who left 
them the farm ? Oh no, indeed, never, nor had her 
father either ; but it was all writ in a letter by a 
lawyer-man, and when they got to the house, why, 
it had stood empty eight months, and most of the 
things had been carried off by movers. Mis’ Jon- 
sing down by the brook said, and the windows 
was all knocked out. Hume ? Yes, that was their 
name. Their grandfather was from Scotland, 
father said. The Bealses didn’t have any name 
of their own, only “she” was called Deb and 
“ he ” was named Saul, and they borried the name 
of Beals from a man they got the white horse of 
tradin’ for a mule and a calf ; the mule was lame. 


Seeking a Family, 


27 


Doctor Garth was not at home to dinner. The 
maid served what seemed to Janet a very magnif- 
icent meal, in a state that awed her into silence, so 
oppressed was she by napkins, silver rings and 
forks, brass crumb-tray and scraper, and dessert 
served in china with whipped cream. After din- 
ner Mrs. Garth offered Janet some toys for little 
Bruce. She looked at them hesitatingly: “ You’d 
better not, till David gets the Bealses kicked out. 
There’d be fight, fight, all the time.” Mrs. Garth 
then gave her several books likely to be more 
wholesome reading than “ The Ranger’s Bride,” 
provided her with two or three garments to match 
the suit she had put on, and then took her in the 
buggy to within a mile of her home. 

” Good-bye,” she said ; “ I am glad you came, 
and I shall be out to see you and David before 
long.” 

“ I guess I’ll make David open his eyes !” cried 
Janet. 

Mrs. Garth drove home, letting Dandy go his 
own gait while she wondered what she ought to 
do about the Bealses. 

Two days; three; it was Friday. The morn- 
ing train had come in, and to the platform stepped 
a woman of sixty with the dazed, lost look of a 
stranger in a strange land. The kindly, keen blue 
eyes, the fine, regular features, the oval face, cheek- 
bones a little prominent, upper lip rather long, the 


28 


Ragweed. 


bloom late-lying on the fair skin, the white cap, 
the trim, quaint, old-world array, proclaimed the 
Scot woman fresh from her native land. She 
sighed at last her goal was reached, but it was 
late — late to tear up the fibres of the heart from 
the old soil and its ways, and plant them anew in 
this strange world of the West. She was a wo- 
man accustomed to self-dependence. She asked 
a question or two and sturdily set off down the 
street. The house where she paused had a closed- 
up air, and three vigorous peals of the bell were 
required to bring to the door an old-time-looking 
negro woman in a plaid turban, a black necker- 
chief, and a white apron against which proudly 
jingled a bunch of keys. 

“ Is Judge Garth at home, mem ?” said the trav- 
eler, quite overwhelmed by the stately appearance 
of the portly, coal-black doorkeeper. 

“ No, missus, he is not,” said the flattered black 
woman. 

“ Will he be at home the day ?” 

“ No, missus, co’se not. Judge Garth am gone 
abroad ; he done take a trip to Paris.” 

The blue-eyed stranger seemed so overwhelmed 
by this news that Miranda felt stirred to pity. Her 
position as care-taker of the judge’s house required 
from her some attention to his clients ; she had, 
happily, some one to refer to. 

“ Yo’ can’t see de judge, honey, ’cause he am 


29 


Seeking a Family. 

gone, but ef yo’ll go ’cross de street, to de oder 
big house, yo’ll see Mis’ Doctor Garth, an’ she 
knows all that’s wu’th knowin’, fo’ suah.” 

Over the street went the pilgrim, more tired 
now : the end of the journey seemed receding 
before her just when she thought that it was 
reached. This time it was a comely, strong-faced 
white girl who answered the bell and led her to a 
library. Again the wanderer’s heart sunk. This 
Mrs. Garth who turned from her writing-table was 
so young-looking, so sunny, time and tide seemed 
to have gone so easily for her, how could she 
know the empty heart of an exile or show a plain 
path in intricate places ? 

“ I kem to see Judge Garth, but he is awa’; I 
am juist fra Scotian’, an’ I dinna ken what to do 
wi’oot him.” 

“ You are from far,” said Mrs. Garth, taking her 
hand and placing her in a rocking-chair. “ How 
sweetly sounds to me that Scottice which was my 
father’s native tongue !” 

“Aye. I’m glad gif my auld farrant talk does- 
na offend you, but I’ll try an’ speak the plain Eng- 
lish, only I aye drop back intil the ither.” 

“ Speak as you are accustomed. I like it ; I 
understand. You need to see my brother-in-law ? 
Tell me about it.” 

“ My name is Ailsa Crathie, an’ I am juist fro’ 
Blantyre. Better than a year syne I had word fro’ 


30 Ragweed. 

Judge Garth that David Hume had left me in his 
wull a braw big farm o’ a hunner acres lying anigh 
here. I could’nt attend til it nor luik to it then, 
for my niece Ailsa, a braw lassie, a’ I had i’ the 
wide worl’, had juist sickened wi’ the consumption 
o’ which she died. I had no a heart for anything 
but her. Weel, when the end cam’ an’ the dear 
Lord took his ain, she said to me, as a’ my kin 
were deid, an’ I had no hame i’ a’ the auld world, 
I suld gaither oop my few hunner poun’s an’ come 
awa’ here to the Ian’ that was lef’ me, an’ mak’ a 
home anear my cousin David’s kin ; for bluid is 
bluid, ye ken, mistress, an’ in the veins of such o’ 
the Humes as is lef’ rins a’ the bluid i’ the worl’ 
akin to me. Weel, I cam’ oot like Abraham, not 
knowin’ whaur I went, an’ it aye seemed that the 
good Lord led me along, till, standin’ yon on the 
door-stone, I heard that Judge Garth was over the 
water, an’ then a’ at once it seemed as if the Lord’s 
han’ slipped oot o’ mine, an’ I didna ken whaur to 
turn. Sic is the weakness o’ my faith; but, oh, 
ye dinna ken what it is to be a stranger in a strange 
Ian’ an’ to have none to ca’ ye kin !” 

Mrs. Garth took the trembling hand in hers. 
“There is a Name,’’ she said, “.which makes 
strangers kin — the name of our elder brother 
Christ. God’s children are never out of their 
fatherland, for all the world is their father’s house ; 
the lovers of the Lord find home and family where- 


Seeking a Painily. 


31 


ever Christ is loved. I do not think the Lord’s 
hand slipped out of yours just now: it only led 
you across the way. Judge Garth is abroad, but 
his chief clerk does his office business, and I will 
write him a note to come here at once with infor- 
mation about the Hume farms. You will stay 
here with me to-day, until you find out all that 
you need to know. Perhaps God has brought 
you here to find a new home and a new family 
and to give you work here for him. A week or 
two ago I met three children, David, Janet, and 
Bruce Hume, who said their farm had been left 
to their father by his uncle David Hume.” 

“Aye, aye! That will be Robert Hume’s chil- 
der. Judge Garth wrote that David wulled one 
farm to me an’ one to his nephy Robert. Aye ; 
Cousin David writ me long syne that Robert had 
married an American. D’ ye think they will tak’ 
kindly to a lonely auld countrywoman like me ?” 

“ Robert and his wife are dead, and the three 
children are in great need of some one to look 
after them. A low, bad family took possession 
of their farm and house, and they are all simply 
sinking into ruin. I only found out about it a 
few days ago, and I have been thinking in what 
way to rescue them. Now God opens the way 
by sending you here.” 

“I’m ower auld for sic a burden,” suggested 
Ailsa. 


32 Ragiveed. 

“ If you were too old to do the errand, you 
would not have been sent.” 

“ Aye ; that is a guid word. The Lord kens 
what he is aboot.” 

“ ‘ To them that have no might he increaseth 
strength.’ You will stay with me until to-mor- 
row, until you learn the facts in the case and 
decide what should be done. My husband and I 
are interested in this family of Hume children, 
and we will be glad to help you in every way 
that we can. I believe you will find them a great 
blessing and comfort to you some day, but now 
they are something like young savages ; they have 
lived among this strolling family of Beals for two 
years.” 

” It will be hard,” said Ailsa Crathie, tears well- 
ing to her eyes. ” My ain Ailsa was so donee 
an’ fair, an’ we were a’ the world to ilk ither, Ailsa 
an’ I.” 

“ Take now these other three for God, and he 
will give you your wages.” 


CHAPTER III. 

HARD LINES. 

“ Take courage : the King hath one measure 
For the service of feet that run 
And of feet that wait his pleasure 
Till all his deep will be done,” 

“ T T ERE, Mistress Ailsa Crathie, is the house 
A that was left you, and this land about it 
— eighty acres, the half of David Hume’s orig- 
inal quarter-section.” 

It was Saturday morning, and a surrey, wherein 
were Mrs. Garth, Ailsa Crathie, and Judge Garth’s 
junior partner, stopped before one of those curious 
ruins of the Western world — a house falling into 
utter decay without being old. It was a two- 
story “ block ” house built of squared logs mor- 
tar-chinked. An open hall above and below, 
one-third the width of the house, with a large 
square room on each side of these two halls, had 
been the original plan of the house, the staircase, 
little more than a ladder, ascending from the lower 
hall. Early in its history, however, the house had 
become the first stage-station from the river, and 
the halls had been enclosed with clapboards. The 
3 33 


34 


Ragweed. 


front portion of the lower hall had an enormous 
door, which, as too large for convenient use, had 
been closed, and a tall narrow door opened, panel- 
like, on each side. These doors had fallen from 
their decaying frames ; all the windows of the house 
had been carried off bodily ; what of the shutters 
remained hung disconsolately, each by one hinge ; 
the doorstep was gone ; the front walk was oblit- 
erated ; what had once been a large fruit-garden in 
front of the house was now a desolation of prairie- 
grass in which struggled for life a few peach and 
cherry trees, and certain currant and gooseberry 
bushes which had ceased to bear fruit, 

“You’ll have to climb the fence,” said Mr. Por- 
ter ; “ there is no gate,” 

Crowding through one of the narrow, broken- 
down doors, Ailsa surveyed her inheritance. The 
lower rooms had been used for sheep-shelters, the 
upper ones for grain-garners. In each was a 
wide fireplace. These were built in the great 
stone chimneys which stood in their integrity 
on the outside of either end of the house. In 
the north room a very tall and beautiful mantel of 
carved cherry was falling from its place, dragging 
with it a portion of the window-frame ; in all the 
other rooms the mantels had been torn away for 
fuel, 

“ This house,” said Mr, Porter, “ has not been 
inhabited for ten years, and since Mr, David 


Hard Lines. 


35 


Hume died, over two years ago, folks seem to 
have made pretty free with it. I suppose the 
whole thing would have been carried off if it had 
not been so solidly built. The walls, roof, chim- 
neys, and part of the floors are yet good; but I 
suppose you will live in the other house with the 
Hume children? — that is still habitable.” 

“ I’m o’er auld,” said the canny Scot, “ to sit by 
a stranger’s hearth^stane. If there is ony leevin’ 
togither, I wad rather the childer suld leeve wi’ 
me. I aye liked to have my ain roof-tree above 
my head.” 

“ There’s one small barn in pretty good order,” 
said Mr. Porter. “ Mr. Johnson has had the 
grazing here to pay the taxes. Shall we go on 
to the other house?” 

They had gone but a few rods when Mrs. Garth 
said, “ Stop ; there are the Humes.” They were 
near a small house close by the road-side, where 
David Hume was making short work of a 
wood-pile. Evidently, as his sister had said, he 
liked to work when he could see any sense in it, 
and now he must have seen the sense. With one 
foot on the stick laid across the saw-horse, he 
bent to his task with the grace that always inheres 
in strength, and back and forth through the oak 
and hickory tore his saw, while under his ragged 
blue cotton shirt the great pectoralis major 
swelled and rose, lifting the strong ribs, and the 


36 


Ragiveed. 


splendid play of the deltoid and infraspinatus 
showed Celtic stock not degenerated in the years 
that lapsed between the gladiators of the arena 
and the young rustic of the West. What did he 
know of deltoid and infraspinatus ? he knew that 
he seized the saw with a will, and it moved. He 
had never in his life heard of the name or relation 
of a noble biceps like that of a blacksmith, but 
he kept that and the triceps and the supinator 
longus steadily at work, and thus incidentally sup- 
plied occupation to a boy of twelve who split wood 
with more zeal than discretion, and to that lean 
and freckled eight-year-old laddie who was im- 
pressed on Mrs. Garth’s memory as the recoverer 
of a borrowed axe, and was now occupied in piling 
wood, aided by two little girls of six and four. 
All these manoeuvres were watched by a thin, 
anxious girl, prematurely bent Under the weight 
of a fat baby, and Janet Hume, still in the glory, 
a trifle tarnished, of the pink gingham frock. Be- 
side Janet, looked on the Olympian Bruce, survey- 
ing with supreme indifference the toils of men. 

“ The house,” said Ailsa, “ is verra sma’, but it 
is bonny,” 

“ This is not the Hume place ; this is the Gower 
lot. What a swarm it is! — Hello there, David 
Hume! Go up to your house, will you? I’m 
taking some one up to see you,” cried Mr. Porter. 

The Hume delegation at once set off swiftly 


Hard Lines. 


37 


across the fields, headed by Janet, who guessed 
that the company might be Mrs. Garth, while 
David, not at all enchanted by a similar idea, fol- 
lowed more slowly. When the surrey reached 
the long, dirty porch of the Hume house, the 
entire Beals family were drawn up there, idling 
in the autumn sunlight, the parents both smok- 
ing. 

“ Mrs. Beals,” said Mrs. Garth, with ceremony, 
“this lady is a relative of the Hume children, and 
has come to visit them. She intends to live with 
them.” 

“ She does, does she ? Well, there ain’t no 
room for her here; we’re all full. She’d better 
go back where she came from; the Hume chil- 
dren take up a whole room above stairs for their- 
selves, and we’re that crowded there ain’t place 
for no more.” 

Here arrived David, with his half-curious, half- 
startled stare, like a young buffalo, from under 
shaggy locks. 

“David,” said Mr. Porter, “have you rented 
your farm to these Beals?” 

“ No, I haven’t,” said David. 

“ Yes, he has,” said Mrs. Beals. 

“ Have they paid you any rent, David ?” 

“ No, they haven’t.” 

“ Yes, we have : we’ve boarded and done for 
them three for two years.” 


38 


Ragweed. 


“ The board of three children who work as 
much as the rest of you is small rent for a house 
and farm of eighty broad acres of good land. If 
you have rented the place, where is your contract 
or your witnesses ?” demanded the lawyer. 

“ There’s no writing about it,” said David. 
“They 'moved in on us while father was sick, 
and he said they were not to stay ; but he died, 
and they stayed. I don’t want them here.” 

“Why haven’t you put them out? You’re a 
man. How old are you ?” 

“ Sixteen.” 

“You look twenty. So they came in on you, 
a boy of fourteen, and the others nine and three ! 
Humph ! they had it all their own way ! The 
court should have looked after you and appointed 
a guardian; but what is everybody’s business is 
nobody’s. Hume, this is a relation of yours, from 
Scotland; she owns the other half of this farm, 
and the stage-house.” 

“ Let her go there, then !” cried Mrs. Beals, ad- 
vancing with arms akimbo, red eyes flaming wrath, 
long, jagged, yellow teeth displayed, and rough 
locks flying, terrible as a Tisiphone ; “ I won’t 
have any stuck-up ladies here.” 

But under the soft, elderly exterior of Ailsa 
Crathie was the good metal of the true Scot, and 
it rang out at this charge. She turned to the tall 
brown lad ; 


Hard Lines. 


39 


“ If this is my cousin David Hume’s property, it 
is for him, an’ no for any stranger, to say whether 
I shall go or stay. Speak ye, David, my mon ; I 
hae coom fro’ far to touch a han’ that has bluid 
kin to mine. Sal I go or tarry?” 

She had evoked out of this great boy a man. 
In the heart of this burly, unmothered lad was the 
natural longing for woman’s care and tenderness. 
Mrs. Garth with her ” air fin ” and laughter-loving 
eyes abashed him, but this blue-eyed, elderly, moth- 
erly face turned to him, finding in him the arbiter of 
destiny, awoke the man. His broad back straight- 
ened, his great shaggy head erected itself. “ You’ll 
stay,” he said, placing himself by Ailsa ; “ and if 
Deb Beals don’t like it, yonder’s the road she 
come on.” 

“ The road !” cried Deb, roused to fury ; “ and 
winter cornin’ on, an’ we bin here workin’ for 
you two year! You don’t get rid of us like that. 
What right has she here ? — a cousin I a far cousin ! 
We don’t count cousins in this country I” 

“ The law, Mrs. Beals,” said Mr. Porter, ” counts 
cousins, and recognizes blood as far as it can be 
traced. She has rights, and you have none. As 
for getting rid of you all, a writ and the sheriff 
will settle the affair as soon as Hume speaks the 
word.” 

“ I speak the word,” said David, a flash of flame 
adding itself to the curiosity in his big eyes. Mrs. 


40 


Ragiveed. 


Beals had seen that flash once or twice before, and 
she quailed before it. When this “ young buffalo,” 
as Mrs.-Garth called him, roused himself and snort- 
ed with wrath, little could stand before him, 

Mrs. Beals broke into loud wails. Turn them 
out ! So late in the year, and only one horse, and 
nothin’ ready, and a baby, and a poor dummy, and 
that deformed little Turk, and she had been like a 
mother to those Humes, and nursed their father, 
and buried him — and turned out! She dropped 
on the floor in a heap, and, rocking to and fro, 
continued her lamentations, interspersed with pro- 
fanity that made Ailsa Crathie’s blood run cold. 

Beals now interposed with an injunction to his 
wife to “ shut up.” As for the lady, she was wel- 
come. Let her take all the room she wanted. 
David needn’t get on his ear: they’d make fair 
terms, and get out papers if he liked, though, as 
for himself, he could neither read nor write, and 
didn’t care for papers and such ruck. He didn’t 
want to quarrel with Hume nor Hume’s folks. 

The hostile camps now separated : Mr. Porter, 
Ailsa, Mrs. Garth, and the Humes drew toward 
the road ; the Bealses grouped on the ve- 
randa. 

“ David,” said Mr. Porter, “ don’t enter into any 
contract or bargains with that lot. I don’t know 
as you can clear them out now, but by spring 
you’d better get rid of them, and with Mistress 


Hard Lines. 


41 


Crathie’s help try to make something of your- 
selves. — Mistress Crathie, I don’t see how you 
can live with such a noisy, dirty, foul-mouthed 
lot !” 

“An’ the poor childer ha’ leeved wi’ them two 
years ! David, my braw laddie, ye dinna tak’ to 
sic ungodly neer-do-weels ?’’ 

David shook his head emphatically. 

“ I will hae my ain hoose set in order, an’ we’ll 
a’ live yon.’’ 

“ This house is in better order and is easier to 
repair,” said Mr. Porter. 

“ Na, na,” said Ailsa ; “ I couldna bide to live 
in this hoose. In auld days the leprosy clave in 
hooses as weel as in people. I suld aye think the 
leprosy o’ sin, an’* a’ the cursin’ an’ drinkin’ an’ 
swearin’, stuck to the verra wa’s o’ this hoose. I 
couldna sing my psalms an’ say my prayers here 
richtly. — Mrs. Garth, hoo long will it tak’ to make 
yon hoose fit to live in ? An’ hoo much money 
would it require to set up a hame there wi’ these 
childer ? I tell’t ye yestere’en what I hae.” 

“ You can easily afford to make the place com- 
fortable. A man who is finishing some work for 
us to-day can be had to come out here early Mon- 
day morning with two loads of lumber and go to 
work at it. If David will help him, no doubt the 
place can be ready for you in a month.” 

“ What ! go and live in another house, away 


42 Ragweed. 

from the Bealses?” cried David. “You believe 
J’ll help him !” 

“ That will be leaving the Beals family in full 
possession here,” said Mr. Porter. “ If you do 
that, you must have them clearly warned that they 
are to go in the spring. They cannot stay here 
any longer. Set the time, and stick to it. They 
have been here too long now ; the next thing, it 
will be hard to oust them.” 

“ I don’t see how you can stay here for a month,” 
said Mrs. Garth to Ailsa. “ I don’t believe there is 
a clean room or bed or dish in the house, or a 
towel or wash-basin.” 

“ Janet’s been scrubbing at our room since she 
came back from your house,” said David, “ and 
she’s washed the bed-things. There’s a bedstead 
where she and Bruce sleep, and I have a place 
in the corner, on the floor ; but Bruce can lie there, 
and I’ll go to the barn.” 

“ I maun stay,” said Ailsa with a great sigh. 
“Yon Bealses maun ken that the Hume childer 
hae someain to tak’ tent for them. David, ye’re 
a braw laddie, ain o’ the dark Humes. When I 
was a sma’ lassie yer gran’sir an’ his brither David 
Hume aye look’t to me the brawest men that ever 
trod heather. They carried me to dame-school on 
their sho’thers, an’ when I was a lass grown David 
Hume an’ I were sweethearts. But trouble cam’ 
between, an’ we pairted. There’s a glint o’ David 


Hard Lines. 


43 

in your eye, laddie. God send you like him in 
your heart, for he was a gude mon.” 

She spoke to the lad, her hand on his arm, for- 
getful that there was any one there but themselves. 
Mrs. Garth and Mr. Porter drew a little apart. 

Presently, as Ailsa was resolute to remain, they 
gave her her portmanteau and a basket of provis- 
ions that Mrs. Garth’s forethought had made ready. 
Then they prepared to drive away. The prudent 
Ailsa handed Mrs. Garth her purse. “ Pll no keep 
ony money in this hoose,” she said, “ and ye’ll keep 
my chests in town till I have my ain roof Send 
oot the carpenter-mon on Monday, an’ dinna fret 
aboot me. Pll win through : the Lord will be wi’ 
me as he was wi’ the three childer in the fiery fur- 
nace” — which Biblical reminiscence was sufficiently 
uncomplimentary to Ailsa’s present surroundings. 

” You needn’t be afraid,” said David to his guest 
as the surrey rolled away. ” Pll look out for you.” 

“ I wadna be afraid wi’ sic a braw young birkie 
to Stan’ oop for me,” said Ailsa, regarding him 
proudly. Already her lonely heart had received 
this mettlesome fellow, or “birkie,” as a son, 
and stirring in David’s soul was a something new 
— a man’s right of protection and attention to 
women. 

“ Will you come in the house ?” said Janet. 
“ When I visited the lady, we went in and sat 
down and talked.” 


44 


Ragweed. 


The house, however, looked to Ailsa like a cage 
of unclean birds. She could say, with Adam in 
“As You Like It,” “ Though I look old, yet am I 
strong,” The vigorous Scotchwoman had often 
walked twenty miles over the dales of her native 
land. “ Let us luik at a’ the Ian’,” she said — “ at 
your farm an’ mine. It is a grdn’ thing to own 
the Ian’ ye tred : it’s as guid as bein’ a laird ; may 
God keep me fro’ bein’ o’er vauntie aboot it ! But, 
David, I maun speak English ; ye canna unner- 
stan’ me.” 

“ I can understand well enough,” said David ; 
“ my grandsir lived with us till I was eleven, and 
he spoke as you do, and we were used to it. He 
died the night Bruce was born.” 

“ Is it sae ? A soul went to God an’ a soul 
cam’ fro’ God at the same hour ! I mind it was 
aye said when that happened in a hoose that the 
new babe was born for greatness. But that is a’ 
cummer’s chatter, I tak’ it. The Lord lifteth up 
ane an’ pulleth down anither !” Still, in spite of 
this protest, Ailsa began to look more attentively 
at Bruce. 

“ Grandsir used to tell me about when he was a 
boy, and about his home, and about a little cousin 
he had, with yellow hair — Ally, he called her. He 
wished Janet had yellow hair.” 

“ Aye — Ally — it was me. There were aye two 
kinds o’ Humes — black Humes an’ fair Humes, 


Hard Lines. 


45 


Your grandsir an’ David were black, an’ I was 
fair an’ bonny once ; but beauty is vain, a’ except 
the beauty o’ holiness, the Buik says.” 

David could understand Scottice, but this was 
Greek to him. They wandered about the two 
farms until mid-afternoon. Returning to the 
house, David proposed to demand dinner, but 
Ailsa suggested that they should sit under a tree 
and share- the contents of Mrs. Garth’s basket. 
This served for dinner and supper, so it was 
the next morning before the factions of Beals and 
Hume fairly met. 

Ailsa, coming down from her upper room, ad- 
dressed Deb : 

“ Guid-morn, mistress ; can ye tell me whaur I 
will fin’ somethin’ to wash me in?” 

“ No,” retorted Deb, drawing her frowzy head 
from the smoky chimney-place; “we’re not such 
dirty people as has to wash ourselves every day. 

I give the children a rub generally when I’m wash- 
in’ clothes.” ^ 

“ But you aye wash before you eat ?” said the 
horrified Ailsa. 

“ No ; we’re not so stuck-up as that.” 

Ailsa privately considered that they might be 
more “ stuck up ” if they didn’t wash, but she 
took a towel from her valise and proceeded 
through the frost-rimed grass to the brook. 

It was Sabbath morning, fresh and clear; the 


46 


Ragiveed. 


woods were glowing in scarlet, orange, brown, 
bronze, crimson ; jays and red-cap woodpeckers 
and scarlet tanagers darted and clattered about 
her, but neither Sabbath peace nor nature’s glory 
filled poor Ailsa’s soul. She was hungry. She 
had seen the breakfast preparations : bacon and 
corn-pone frying in two cracked pans, and a de- 
coction of beans and chicory, respectfully called 
coffee, boiling and sputtering in a lidless kettle. 
Could she eat such a meal ? 

When she returned to the house she found 
breakfast laid, without grace of a cloth, on the 
black, greasy table. David put a chair, for her by 
the cleanest place, but, though the clans of Hume 
and Beals fairly devoured, Ailsa could not eat. 
David looked at her. 

“ Don’t you like that coffee ? Do you want 
some of that other stuff you made yesterday — 
tea, out of your bag ? Have it, then.” He looked 
about, and seized a dipper in which to make tea. 

“ You let things alone,” bawled Deb. “ If she’s 
too fine to eat what we do, let her go without.” 

“ The things are mine, and so’s the house,” said 
David, “ and my — aunt — can have what she likes.” 
He went up stairs for the tea, and when it had 
been brewed in the dipper he filled Ailsa’s cup. 
“ Let me have some too,” he said ; and he man- 
fully swallowed it, although, to his unaccustomed 
palate, it was more atrocious than Deb’s coffee, 


Hard Lines. 


47 

but with a rising chivalry. he wished to aid and 
comfort his guest. 

During breakfast Pope and Turk ate apart. 

“ Mistress,” said Ailsa to Deb, “ have you no 
sent your dumb chiel to school ?” 

“ What good would school do him — a dummy?” 

“ There are schools where the dumb are taught 
to read and write and given a trade, that they may 
fend for their ainsels like ither people.” 

At these words Turk drew her apron over her 
face and turned to listen. 

“ Pope ain’t goin’ to no school,” said Deb. 
“ Who’d pay us for his time while he was gone ? 
He’s the only one that works.” 

“ But, woman, you owe your unfortunate bairns 
the best ye can do for them.' Ye suld school the 
lad an’ ha’ the lassie’s lip mended.” 

“ Yes ; there was a doctor ’long here one day, 
who wanted me to let him take Turk to Kansas 
City and make her mouth right. Said he’d do it 
for nothin’, but he wouldn’t pay me ten dollars for 
a-lettin’ of her go. I don’t want her mouth mended. 
When she grows up nobody will marry her, and 
she’ll stay an’ work for us, but if her mouth gets 
right she’ll go off married.” 

After this enunciation of maternal principles the 
room seemed to Ailsa too small to hold her and 
Deb. She said to Janet, “ Come, you and Bruce, 
out wi’ me unner the trees in yon auld wagon- 


Ragiveed. 


4S 

box, an’ I’ll read the Bulk til ye. — Come you too, 
my dear,” she added, looking kindly at Turk. 
David had already disappeared. 

“Whaur is David?” she asked as she and 
Janet, Bruce, Pope, and Turk took their places in 
the broken-down wagon-box in the warming sun- 
shine. 

“ He’s gone over to cut wood for Sis,” replied 
Janet. 

“ Does he no keep the Sabbath day according 
to the commandment ?” 

“ What is commandment ?” suddenly demanded 
Bruce. 

“ Eh, my little lad, I have scarce heard you 
speak before,” said Ailsa. 

“‘She’ says he’s a fool because he looks on 
and don’t talk,” said Janet ; “ but Bruce has got 
lots of think in him. We don’t keep Sunday now, 
Aunt Ailsa. I think we did when mother lived, 
before we got in with the Bealses, and we had a 
book mother read out of, but ‘she’ burnt it up. 
We didn’t see her burn it up, but we found part 
of the book in the ash-heap. The book I have 
don’t say anything about Sunday.” 

“The commandment, my bonny man,” said 
Ailsa, laying her hand on Bruce’s nobly-fashioned 
head, “ is the law of our God.” 

“Who is our God?” demanded the child, 
calmly. 


“ Oh, puir wee heathen ! God is the one who 
made you.” 

” Did he make Pope and Turk ?” 

“ Aye, everybody.” 

“ Then,” clattered poor Turk from behind the 
ragged apron wrapped over her face, “ if he made 
us so bad, when he knew how to make good work 
like Janet and Bruce, it was awful cruel, and I 
hate him !” 

Ailsa looked for a thunderbolt after this blas- 
phemy. The sky was serene. Had not God 
heard ? Or did he not condemn ? Or had she 
herself charged God foolishly with the making 
of these two? 


CHAPTER IV. 

AILSA CRATHIE’S INHERITANCE. 

“ The tempest, with its spoils, had drifted in, 

Till each unwholesome stone was darkly spotted. 

As thickly as the leopard’s dappled skin, 

With leaves that rankly rotted.” 

“ T S there no a kirk near here, Janet? — a church?” 
i- added Ailsa, as Janet looked puzzled. 

“ Yes, there’s a church toward the river two 
miles, but I guess it’s shut. I never was there.” 
“ You don’t go to church ?” asked Ailsa, grieved. 
“ I’ve only had this dress since las’ Monday — 
others was all rags.” 

“ If the church is open I could easily win there,” 
said Ailsa, her heart thirsting for the courts of her 
God. 

“ Ask Uncle Mose Barr — he knows,” said Turk, 
thickly. 

Ailsa regarded with awe the big, black, gray- 
wooled negro who came slouching up the lane. 
She had only seen negroes as component parts of 
penny shows. 

” Uncle Mose, is there preachin’ ?” called Janet. 
” Preachin’ ? What anybody roun’ hyar car’ 

50 


Ailsa Crathie' s Inheritance. 51 

’bout preachin’ ? No, dare ain’t. Had preachin’ 
las’ Sunday; won’t have no mo’ for a month. 
Guess I knows. I’m sexton down dar. — Yo’ Turk, 
yo’ go tell yo’ mar I want my soap-kettle; my 
ole woman’s gwine bile soap. That’s all yo’ gits 
for lendin’ things to po’ white trash : nebber brings 
nuffin back.” 

Here Mr. Beals and the partner of his erratic 
life appeared, and took exception to being referred 
to as “ poor white trash.” 

“ Well, I doan know what else yo’ is,” assev- 
erated Uncle Moses ; “ you doan own nuffin but a 
wagon with three wheels an’ a boss with one eye ; 
all de res’ dare is b’longs to me or to de Humes 
or to Mis’ Jonsing down by de brook” 

This initiated a wordy battle, carried on with 
equal vigor on both sides until Uncle Mose, out of 
breath, retreated literally under cover of the soap- 
kettle, for he carried it reversed on his head ; and 
the Bealses, left also hors-de-combat, took up their 
cob pipes. 

The next diversion was a quarrel between the 
Beals children in which the parents were finally 
enlisted, with the result that the juniors withdrew 
and left their seniors on opposite sides of an argu- 
ment conducted with sticks. 

“ I canna thole it,” cried Ailsa. " It is a’ like 
a den o’ wild beasts. Daniel foun’ the crooning 
hour an’ glory o’ his life sittin’ in a den o’ lions 


52 Ragweed. 

wi’ a’ the beasts glowerin’ at him, but I hanna 
Daniel’s faith, an’ I canna thole sic weary ways.” 

” Did they eat him ?” slowly demanded Bruce, 
turning his lofty gaze upon Ailsa. 

“ Wha ? The lions eat Daniel ? No, bairnie ; 
God sent an angel.” 

“ What’s an angel ?” 

“ Oh, lassie ! Yon two will kill ilk ither.” 

“ No, they won’t ; they’re used to it,” said Janet. 
Then, seeing that Ailsa, whom she called her aunt, 
was pale and really terrified, she said, “ Come, let’s 
us and Bruce go down to Sis Gower’s house ; it’s 
always nice there since her father ran off.” 

Ailsa Crathie, Bible in hand, departed under the 
leadership of Janet, Turk and Pope following at 
a respectful distance. 

“Are these new-world manners?” Ailsa asked 
herself Truly, these people seemed to be apt 
pupils of the aborigines. Ailsa supposed that 
Indians whooped and fought and indulged in 
squalid savagery, but her lines of life had been 
hitherto in quiet rural places where to fear God 
and keep his commandments had been recognized 
as the whole duty of a Christian. 

“ Did you say the faither had rin awa’ ?” she 
asked Janet. 

“Sis Gower’s father? Yes. You see, he 
wouldn’t work at all, and Mis’ Gower always 
worked for Mis’ Jonsing down by the brook, and 


Aiha Crathic's Inheritance. 


53 


she fed him and gave him money for his whiskey 
and tobacco, so he could just lie ’round. Then 
she died, and I expect he thought he might have 
to work and help take care of the children, and 
the next day after the fun’al he ran away, and 
never came back. That’s a year. Sis takes care 
of them all. There’s six.” 

“ Sikey works,” struck in Bruce, showing that 
he paid some attention to mundane affairs. 

‘‘Yes, Sikey works for Mis’ Jonsing down by 
the brook, and gets his clothes and board and a 
dollar a month. And Sis works hard, and Pam 
works what he can, droppin’ corn an’ huskin’ an’ 
pickin’ up apples an’ ’taters, but he’s only eight. 
I hate all these mean, poor ways. Aunt Ailsa. 
I’d like to live where there are silken cushings, 
and feet sink in velvet, and lace curtings float into 
the moonlight, and walls flash with gold, as it is in 
‘ The Ranger’s Bride ;’ and if I couldn’t have like 
that, I’d rather be like Mrs. Garth than like — 
nothing.” 

Here Janet was discoursing Greek to Ailsa, who 
had not had the good fortune to form thought and 
language upon the descriptions in “ The Ranger’s 
Bride and while she tried to divine what Janet 
did mean, they reached the little home of the 
Gowers, and found the work at the wood-pile 
proceeding actively, and Sis, baby in lap, look- 
ing on. 


54 


Ragweed. 


Sis and her five brothers and sisters were clean, 
and their poor garments were well patched. The 
three rooms and a “ lean-to ” were clean and quiet, 
though something bare, for the errant “ dad ” had 
swallowed in the form of whiskey all superfluities. 

“ They’re goin’ it over there,” explained Janet, 
“and Aunt Ailsa was frightened, and we came 
over here. She was readin’ to us, and she’s 
brought along the book. It’s the book the teacher 
reads out of mornings at school, and that Miss 
Beals burnt up for us.” 

“ Aye,” said Ailsa, “ an’ it is a verra guid buik. 
I’ll wale a portion for ye, gif ye’ll sit to listen. 
It’s no richt to cut wood upo’ the Sabbath day.” 

Sis brought a rocking-chair to the grass-plot 
before the door. The day was balmy; the chil- 
dren dropped quietly into various attitudes of 
rest, David cast his brawny strength at Ailsa’s 
feet, and Turk and Pope hid their informities be- 
hind her chair. 

Ailsa turned over the leaves of her book. But 
she was unused to ministering to the minds of 
children, and she was accustomed to reading her 
Bible in course. The portion yet unread for the 
day was in the seventh chapter of Daniel. The 
children, with staring eyes of surprised young 
animals who lift their heads from grazing to watch 
the passer-by, heard of strange beasts and thrones 
and kings; the clouds in the heavens became 


Aiha Cratliie's Inheritance. 55 

chariots, and the sunset glories were for them, for 
ever after, fiery streams. 

As the reader’s voice fell away into silence 
Sikey started up : “ I’ve got to go to dinner. 
We’re goin’ to have roasted chine over to our 
house.” He leaped the fence and set off toward 
the invisible abode of plenty — the home of Mis’ 
Jonsing down by the brook. 

Sis sighed : how good meat would taste ! Sis 
was generally hungry. She looked at Mistress 
Crathie and the Humes, Dinner-time, and her 
supply was — a pan of skimmed milk and two 
johnny-cakes ! 

David guessed as much. “ Hello ! dinner-time,” 
he said. “ I’ll run over to the house and bring 
your basket. Aunt Ailsa, and we’ll all eat what is 
in it ; there’s plenty.” 

What ! saved from going back to that den ? 
Ailsa agreed heartily. David set off at a round 
pace. He was gone long. He returned, not with 
the basket, but bearing on his shoulder Ailsa’s 
valise. 

“ What are ye glowerin’ at, laddie ?” asked Ailsa 
as she noted his red and frowning face, black 
clouds of wrath lowering under his heavy brows. 

Then his rage broke forth. He had gone up to 
their own room for the basket, but found it entirely 
empty except for the little tin box of tea. Several 
Beals children were licking their lips after having 


56 Ragweed. 

devoured all the eatables. Deb herself was on her 
knees, not praying to be delivered from tempta- 
tion, but trying to pry open Ailsa’s valise, while 
Saul looked on. 

“ I didn’t whack her,” said David, roaring out 
his wrongs like a young bull of Bashan, “ ’cause 
she’s a woman, and I ain’t so low down as Saul 
Beals yet; but I licked him, handsome.” The 
memory of his recent active interview with Saul 
seemed to afford him great aid and comfort for a 
season; but all his mighty muscles and the hot 
currents of his young blood could not be nour- 
ished merely on fond fancies and recollections ; 
he needed some solid sustentation, and where to 
satisfy his robust appetite he knew not. 

But He who feeds the sparrows and fills the 
gaping mouths of young ravens and the whelps 
of the lions, was not unmindful of the hunger of 
the curiously assorted group at Sis Gower’s door. 
He sent help from an unexpected quarter. 

Sikey was to be seen coming up the road, carry- 
ing on his head a large splint basket decorated 
with a white cloth. 

“Ho there. Sis ! Lay out a cloth ! Here’s your 
grub !” cried Sikey. 

Sikey, having found Mis’ Jonsing down by the 
brook engaged in the womanly art of dishing din- 
ner, had made himself acceptable to her by a large 
instalment of gossip: David Hume’s aunt had come 


Ailsa Crathie's Inheritance. 


57 


from Scotland ; she was a mighty grand lady, and 
awful rich. She was the one old Hume’s t’other 
farm an’ the “ stage-house ” had been left to, and 
she was goin’ to build over the ‘ stage-house ’ an’ 
live there with the Humeses, Carpenters an’ 
things was cornin’ to-morrow to begin buildin’. 
An’ David Hume’s aunt couldn’t abear them 
Bealses, an’ she an’ the Humeses was sittin’ in 
Sis’s yard now, an’ he’d jes’ like to know what 
they’d get for dinner, for he’d be blamed if Sis 
had as much pone an’ milk as would go oncet 
’round. 

This narration roused Mis’ Jonsing down by the 
brook to a magnificent exhibit of Missouri hospi- 
tality. The foreign woman was not to think that 
all Missouri was as low down as them Bealses nor 
as poverty-struck as Sis. Whereupon, the dame 
placed a splint basket on the table, and bestowed 
therein a pan of crisp and fragrant chine, a mound 
of steaming potatoes leaping out of their brown 
jackets, huge green cucumber pickles, biscuits 
galore, and, roofing the whole with two well- 
browned apple pies, she drew over the basket a 
clean towel and charged Sikey to carry it safely 
if he had any desire for prosperity in this world 
or the next. 

By the time the basket was lowered from Sikey’s 
head. Sis, whose table was very small and her dishes 
very scarce, had spread her largest cloth upon the 


58 


Ragweed, 


grass, and at this improvised picnic they all sat 
down, while Sikey and the basket speedily revert- 
ed to their distant place. 

“ This kind of a dinner,” said Sis, beaming, after 
all were at their second helping, ” is the kind we’ll 
have every day when our father comes back. I 
am pretty sure he will come back soon now. Of 
course he loves us, and he’ll want to see how the 
baby has grown. When he comes back he will 
work for Mr. Gage or cut ties, and earn a dollar 
or a dollar and a quarter a day ; Sikey will keep 
on working, and so will I, and we’ll send the rest 
to school. We’ll have clothes then, and go to 
church, and after a while we’ll have a store car- 
pet and muslin curtains in the front room, and a 
new room built for the boys, and everything just 
as mother and I planned it before mother died.” 

“ I don’t believe he’ll ever come. Mis’ Jonsing 
down by the brook says he won’t never ; he’ll stay 
away and drink whiskey.” Thus the ruthless lit- 
tle brother Pam shattered with his voice her fan- 
cies. But Sis recovered herself : 

“Hush, Pam; you don’t know. He’ll come. 
I have dreamed of it plenty of times. I shall 
hear a sound, and I shall open the door, and there 
will be father ; and he’ll never go away, and never 
drink any more.” O prophetic soul ! 

“ Oh, bother it. Sis !” said David. 

But Janet came to the rescue of Sis : “ It will 


Ailsa Crathie's Inheritance. 


59 


be as she says, David — of course it will; her father 
will come back, and I will be rich and a great lady 
like my cousin Ida. I shall have rings and a pearl 
necklace, and play on a music-thing, and have 
snow-white hands like Cousin Ida.” 

” Bosh !” said David. Evidently, David, the 
big, brown, brawny one, was not dowered with 
the grace of sympathy. 

The meal was over. Sis laid the sleeping baby 
in a corner, and proceeded, with Janet’s help, to 
put away the remnants of the goodly feast. Da- 
vid sat by Ailsa. 

“ Much he’ll come back !” growled David. ” A 
lazy, drinking creature ! Sis believes in him for all, 
and so did her mother. I was here the night she 
died, and she talked to them mighty nice — made 
me think of my mother. And, the day after she 
was buried, off he skipped ! Sis takes care of the 
whole of ’em. She sells ties enough for taxes, from 
her wood-lot. Six acres, and this house they own. 
Us’t to be her mother’s. She earned it school- 
teaching. She school-teached in this district ten 
year. Mis’ Gage says, an’ finally took up with 
Gower, a lazy, drinkin’ boy that married her to 
be took care of. If a woman can’t do better than 
that, she’d better never marry whatever.” 

“ Aye,” said Ailsa ; “ women often marry to their 
trouble an’ confusion.” 

“ Sis isn’t like the other folks,” said David, un- 


6o 


Ragweed. 


easily, “ See how clean her house is ! I don’t want 
you to think I am going to knuckle to them Bealses 
or turn my back on you, Aunt Ailsa, but it’s no use 
tryin’ to have you stay over yon. They’ll break 
open your bag an’ steal all you have, an’ you can’t 
eat or sleep in such noise an’ dirt, an’ them Bealses 
ain’t none too good to put poison in your tea — if 
they could get any.” 

“ Preserve us a’ !” cried Ailsa, “ But whaur will 
I bide ?” 

“ You can stay here with Sis till your house is 
done. Sis will give you her best room. Look in 
at it ; there’s a risin’ sun quilt on the bed ! Sis 
made that.” 

“ Aye,” said Ailsa, “ it’s bonny, an’ I fin’ it haird 
to Stan’ sic contramptious tapsalteerie ways as yon 
Bealses. They are a feckless lot, sure enough, but 
I could thole it a’ but the fichtin’ an’ cursin’ : I 
canna bide that. The God o’ peace canna come 
intil sic a hoose as yon, an’ the name o’ my Faither 
is o’er dear to me to hear it used in vain. But I 
canna thole leavin’ you a’ there.” 

“ We have been there two years,” said David, 
“ and I didn’t know how bad it was till you came. 
I saw a white flower lyin’ in the mud one day, 
and it made the mud look pretty black ; and 
you’re so clean and quiet and so — so like a mother, 
you make the Beals lot look pretty wild. If you’re 
going to let us live with you, why, we can stand 


Ailsa Crathie's Inheritance. 6i 

it till the house is done. And I’ll work like a 
nigger to get it done too, you bet !” 

“ Aye,” said Ailsa ; “ do they black bodies work 
so fast ? I ne’er saw but twa o’ them, an’ they 
didna look verra stirrin’. But we’ll a’ work wi’ a 
wull, an’ get a hame ready for us a’, an’ then I 
shall ha’ a family o’ my ain once mair ! You will 
ken then, David, what a hame can be whaur the 
peace o’ God rests like a benediction, an’ the wull 
o’ God is dune, an’ the guid Buik is aye the rule 
o’ livin’. Aye, wi’ sic a hame makin’ ready for 
us we can wait. Hope is aye a gran’ stay to the 
soul. Doesna the psalm say, ‘ I had fainted, un- 
less I had believed to see the goodness of the 
Lord in the land o’ the living. Wait on the 
Lord : be of good courage, an’ he shall strengthen 
thine heart : wait, I say, on the Lord’ ? Oh, mon, 
the Buik is a well o’ sweet waters !” 

David shook his shaggy head and gazed at her 
with round, wondering eyes. Her voice was sweet 
and tender, her words flowed warm from her heart, 
but to him they meant nothing. He lived in the 
present; he almost never looked back, almost 
never, forward ; he dwelt in a perpetual now, and 
his eyes, unless he was roused to anger or cu- 
riosity, had the calm, contented stare of those of 
a young bullock. 

There was much more thought in the eyes of 
Bruce. Since dinner he had remained quiet, de- 


62 Ragiveed. 

voting himself placidly to digestion and specula- 
tion. Now he came near. 

“ Ailsa,” he said, without the ceremony of “ aunt,” 
which the other two had adopted, “ who is God ?” 

” Oh, my poor lambie, dinna ye ken that it is 
God who spreadeth the heavens like a curtain, 
and bendeth the rainbow in his hands, and speak- 
eth in the thunder ?” 

Poor Bruce, unable to comprehend, stared in 
her face, but David caught a little glimpse of this 
King of Glory — and he had often taken his name 
in vain ! 

That evening, when the Humes were gone, 
Aunt Ailsa and Sis became very good friends. 
Sis told of her hopes of the errant father’s return, 
and of her ambitions and intentions for her little 
family. Her imagination forestalled the years, 
and she saw them honorable, happy, rich. Sis 
was a thorough altruist ; all her life was absorbed 
in these brothers and sisters. What was her name ? 
Why, Sis — only Sis, so far as she knew. But the 
others had names which she had picked out for 
them from a history book, when they had a little 
shelf of books which father had — sold by mistake. 
It seemed whatever father had done had been 
done by mistake. Yes, Sikey was Cyrus, after a 
very great king. Pam was Epaminondas ; not to 
forget it, Sis had written it all down on the under 
side of the closet shelf — not on the top side: it 


AtVsa Crathie s Inheritance. 63 

might be scrubbed off. Epaminondas, the book 
said, was a great soldier, very wise, who played 
the flute beautifully. Of course Pam could not 
expect quite to come up to that, but he might be 
something pretty nice if she could give him a 
chance. One thing was sure — they all had to 
learn to work, and daren’t tell any lies nor drink a 
drop of whiskey. Lola, she was named after a 
lady that danced ; not that Sis cared to have Lola 
dance, but it was a pretty name. “ Miss ” was 
short for Artemisia, a queen. The baby had had 
several names to try on, and they were not quite 
sure which one to keep. 

On Mondays Sis worked for Mis’ Jonsing down 
by the brook, and on Fridays for Miss Gage, and 
at other times all she could. When Mistress 
Crathie offered two dollars a week for her board, 
and promised to teach Sis various kinds of needle- 
work, Sis felt that her fortune was assured, but she 
made haste to promise that bacon, wheat-flour, and 
potatoes should at once be provided. 

The next morning about nine, Ailsa Crathie, 
standing by Sis Gower’s gate, saw two wagon- 
loads of lumber stop at the fence before her house. 
The fence was promptly torn down and the wagons 
drove in. 

On the top of a pile of shingles, ship-lap, scant- 
ling, three-by-fours, planks, and planed boards sat a 
lean little German surrounded by tool-box, mitre- 


64 Ragweed. 

box, oil-stove, cans of paint, some tinware, and a 
bundle of bedding. This was “ the carpenter- 
man,” come prepared to live in Ailsa’s house 
until he had completed his work. He leaped from 
the wagon, darted at the house, and flew hither 
and thither, now at a door, now at a window, 
now at a wall ; he looked to Ailsa for all the 
world like a wasp seeking a suitable place for 
building its paper cells. 

Now a ladder was planted, and up to the house- 
top skipped the little man, and danced over the 
roof; now he peered into the chimney; now he 
was on his knees on the ground, prying into the 
state of the underpinning ; now he leaped Hke a 
dervish along the floors; now he kicked a bare 
board, now pounded at a partition. Ailsa had 
just concluded that here was ” a daft body ” when 
he sat on the door-step and, with his mouth twist- 
ed sideways and one eye screwed shut, elaborated 
on a strip of paper a further order for lumber, 
casings, bricks, lime, and hair. This was to be 
sent by the returning wagons. Then he danced 
at David: 

“Is there any sand about here? Draw a 
couple of loads at once, sifted. No sifter? Well, 
make one;” and before the wagons were out of 
sight broken window- and door-frames were com- 
ing down and a great dust rose about Ailsa’s 
Inheritance. 


CHAPTER V. 


THE WHITE FLOCKS ON THE HILLS. 

“He guides, and near him they 
Follow delighted, for he makes them go ' 

Where dwells eternal May, 

And heavenly roses blow 
Deathless, and gathered but again to grow.” 

day long boards fell and rotten shingles 



XX flew, and the wasp-like little man seemed 
only bent on demolition. The odd, ill-conditioned 
door-frames of the hall fell away, and the old stair- 
case, “ worn by the feet that now were silent,” lay 
bare to the sun. Finally the demon of destruc- 
tion stayed his work and turned to Ailsa, who was 
looking gravely on : 

“ Now, missi.s, what is left is good and solid ; 
we can work on that. Tell me what you want 
done, and I’ll do it. You’d better let me partition 
off a hall-room above stairs, and divide this north 
room into a little sitting-room and a bed-room for 
you that will have the sun by a west window.” 

As he hurried on with his list of changes a 
buggy with yellow wheels stopped at the door. 


and Ailsa turned to see Doctor and Mrs. Garth, 

65 


5 


66 


Ragzvecd. 


A little ripple of laughter, a smile all around 
which would have lit the cloudiest day, a hand 
extended friendly-wise, a merry voice : “ Ah, Bil- 
man, have you stopped to take breath yet ?” and 
carpenter Bilman tucked his chin into the neck- 
band of his shirt, looked flattered, and sidled to- 
ward Dr. Garth, saying, “ I reckon you’d better 
tell her what she wants.” 

“ Her ” was Ailsa, who, as a shipwrecked wan- 
derer desires and seizes the dear land, had placed 
herself close to Mrs. Garth and was at peace. 

“ He’s a verra stirrin’ body,” she said, looking 
askance at the “ carpenter-man.” 

But now Mrs. Garth went about the house with 
Ailsa, and, chalk in hand, marked out on the floor 
the changes. Here, from the large south kitchen, 
a nice pantry must be taken off, and here a closet 
with shelves for bedding. Here, as Bilman sug- 
gested, a west bed-room for Ailsa, and a room 
from the upper hall for Janet, while the room over 
the kitchen, heated by a drum from the kitchen 
stove, would be a fine place for the boys. Ailsa 
heard about closets, an extra room for emergen- 
cies, a new staircase, and a covered porch at back 
and front, and her troubled face grew serene. 
Her coming house rose commodious before her, 
a fixed fact. No more an alien or a wanderer, 
seated at her own hearthstone, a family of her kin 
about her, she could constitute her home in the 


The White Flocks 07 t the Hills. 67 


fashion of that of her fathers. Mrs. Garth was so 
assured, so self-reliant, and so undoubting that she 
conveyed these qualities to those about her. Ailsa 
received their full benefit. 

“You need not watch your carpenter nor give 
him orders after you have once told him what you 
want. He will do the work in the quickest and 
most reasonable way, and you will see that, though 
he is working by the day, he scarcely gives him- 
self time to eat. He is one of the people made to 
do better for others than for themselves. He was 
born in an outlandish country called Altruria.” 

“ Eh ?” said Ailsa. “ I ne’er heard o’ that coun- 
try.” 

“ It lies so far off that no one has ever visited 
there. The climate is not favorable to us nine- 
teenth-century people,” laughed Mrs. Garth. And 
then along the path to meet them came a tall, lean, 
freckled girl, stooping under the weight of a fat 
baby named for the time Olive. And, though 
Mrs. Garth did not know it, this girl had lived all 
her life in Altruria, and found there congenial air. 

“ Friday,” said Mrs. Garth to Ailsa, “ I will come 
for you in the surrey to stay over night at my 
house, and we will talk about what you will need 
to buy for your house, and how you will arrange 
your life.” 

The next morning, when Ailsa awoke, she found 
that she was restored to her natural calm, energetic 


68 Ragweed. 

self. She had become physically rested after her 
long journey, and she was able now to adjust her- 
self to her surroundings. The strange accents, 
the foreign landscape, the ways so different from 
her life-long environment, had at first discomfited 
her. She had been prepared to see Indians in full 
suits of feathers, scouring up and down, possibly 
even out after scalp-locks, but she had not expect- 
ed to live in their wigwams or to see Humes gone 
down to the level of Bealses. She had been dazed 
at finding herself in a country so rich in land that 
the ownership of one hundred and sixty good 
acres had been an affair of little interest; where a 
gypsy family could settle down in a homestead un- 
hindered ; where a decent bequeathed house could 
be turned into a byre for cows and sheep ; and 
where a girl of fourteen could, unmolested and 
unassisted, administer a house, five acres of land, 
and five children, pay her own taxes, plan her 
own future, and no one- consider the matter wor- 
thy of comment. 

But God “ giveth songs in the night,” and be- 
stows blessings on his beloved in their sleep ; as in 
ancient days he gave visions and made his good- 
ness to pass before them in their dreams, so still, 
” when deep sleep falleth upon men, in slumberings 
upon the bed ; then he openeth the ears of men, 
and sealeth their instruction.” So on this night, in 
the language of those among whom she had been 


The White Flocks on the Hills. 


69 


reared, Ailsa had been “ visited.” God had met her 
in the wilderness, and allured her, and spoken com- 
fortably unto her, and strengthened her heart, and 
renewed her will, and increased to her wisdom and 
charity, that her last days might be her best days, 
that life’s late autumn might bear life’s richest fruits, 
and that, while yet living, Ailsa might not sink down 
in apathy and ignorance into a spiritual death. 

She awoke : the sun bad risen ; along the still 
air came to her the ring of the hammer of the 
indefatigable Bilman ; the busy Sis was in the 
“ lean-to,” getting ready the breakfast, and out in 
the yard Pam and Lola were neither fluting nor 
dancing, but were gathering chips and refuse wood 
to make a fire under the big iron kettle mounted 
on stones — for, to-day Sis was to do her family 
washing. 

Ailsa’s heart went out to these children ; beyond 
them she realized a redoubled responsibility to- 
ward the Humes, and this love and responsibility 
renewed her strength ; once more she felt at home. 
Our skies may change, but love and duty are the 
same for evermore. 

David was coming across the field at a swing- 
ing pace ; the work at the ” stage-house ” had 
opened to him a new existence. Ailsa went out 
to meet him : 

” David, laddie, I want ye to go back an’ fetch 
me the chiel Bruce. He mustna stay wi’ yon 


70 


Ragivecd. 


evil-tongued aiies ony main I can pay Sis here for 
his keep wi’ me. It will help the lassie, an’ what 
is a bit o’ siller to set over against the guid o’ the 
wee lad ? I waud better gie him up-bringin’ the 
noo than siller after I am deid. So go bring me 
the bairn, an’ tell Janet an’ the puir chiel Turk to 
come here an’ I will gie them a lesson in sewin’. 
Janet can spen’ her time here learnin’ what is guid 
for her, not havverin’ wi’ they Bealses;” 

Janet and Bruce speedily arrived under convoy 
of David, but Mrs. Beals had asserted herself and 
refused to allow Turk and Pope to go near “ that 
proud foreign piece.” If, Mrs. Beals thought, she 
owned anything in the world, it was her children, 
and she’d have no one interferin’ an’ settin’ up that 
the dummy Pope had ought to be schooled, and 
Turk had ought to be made like other people. 
She’d show ’em, 

“ When I told Turk to come on an’ learn to 
sew,” said David, “ Mis’ Beals nearly took the 
place. She went to ravin’ an’ pitchin’ an’ charg- 
in’ about like mad.” 

However, on Thursday Turk arrived, eager to 
“ learn somethin’.” Pope had been hired by a 
“ tie-man ” to give a day to cutting railroad ties 
in Sis Gower’s woods. As Pope’s only means 
of communication with the outer world, Turk 
had been sent with him ; but Pope was quick at 
catching signs when he chose to be, and, having 


The White Flocks on the Hills. 


71 


settled himself at his work and given poor lit- 
tle Turk half the lunch of biscuit and bacon, he 
had offered her the day to go to Sis Gower’s. 

Turk was now so far accustomed to Ailsa that 
she dropped her apron from before her deformed 
face, but she kept behind Ailsa’s chair, reaching 
her needlework around for inspection. Ailsa was 
learning to catch the girl’s thick speech, and their 
talk was about schools where “dummies like Pope’’ 
could learn things, and about doctors who could 
cut and change a face such as Turk’s to look 
like other people’s. 

“ But don’t you think,’’ said Turk, returning to 
her grievance, “ that, when God knew how to make 
me an’ Pope right, he ought to done it ? Wasn’t 
it bad enough to make us Bealses, ’stid of like 
Mis’ Jonsing down by the brook ? What did he 
do it for ? I wouldn’t treat poor children so !’’ 

“ Lassie,’’ said Ailsa, “ ye are askin’ me hard 
questions. I canna answer them a’ ; but I know 
it is sin, not God, that is chargeable in human 
dools, an’ somehoo your parents are the anes an- 
swerable for the meeserable condition o’ yoursel’ 
an’ the dumb laddie. Maybe for that hardness o’ 
hairt that doesna pity you, and willna take pains 
to get you help, their forebears before them are 
answerable that they suld be harder than brute 
beasts to their childer! It seems to me some 
power ought to be able to stan’ between you two 


72 


Ragiveed. 


an’ sic unnatural parents. But let me tell you, 
lassie, there is ane named the Lord Christ, who 
sees a’, an’ kens a’, an’ takes tent for us a’. He 
can help you wi’ a strong han’ an’ a stretched-oot 
arm. The hearts o’ a’ are in his han’, an’ like 
rivers o’ water he turns them whaur he will. Gif 
ye kneel down every day and pray to him, ‘ O 
Lord Christ, help me an’ Pope,’ he’ll surely dae it, 
tho’ hoo or when I canna tell ye. He lo’es you 
baith, though ye mayna know it.” 

The little girls steadily and silently drew their 
needles in and out the seams of sewing — work for 
Sis; “Miss” and the baby played with cobs; 
Bruce sat seriously surveying a busy ant-hill on 
the door-path. Ailsa knit, and her mind wan- 
dered in a weary maze. Once it had been so easy 
to refer all to God, to go to the Book and get 
direction thence, and follow it. But, set face to 
face with the Beals problem, what was God’s 
doing, what was man’s ? Had these tyrants any 
real rights derived from an accident of birth ? 
If only to be obeyed “ in the Lord,” could they 
expect any obedience at all ? What honor could 
possibly be given to them ? Rather than like 
parents, they were like two horrible, irrespon- 
sible jagged wheels that caught and held and tore 
under their grip these wretched human things. 

Turk’s thick voice clacked out a question: 
“ How will he help folks when they pray to him ?” 


The White Flocks on the Hills. 


73 


“ I don’t know,” said Ailsa, desperately. ” I 
only know he does it — sometimes by giving them 
verra guid sense to help themsels.” 

On Friday Mrs. Garth came with the surrey 
and took Ailsa and Bruce to town with her; 
Janet was left with Sis in Ailsa’s place. Mr. Gage 
had hired David to go early to town next day, to 
help drive in mules for shipping. That suited 
Ailsa. 

“ You’ll come to me airly as ye can, David, an’ 
we’ll go to the tailor-man an’ buy ye claes. I’ll 
outfit ye a’ wi’ my ain siller the noo, an’ when we 
get they Bealses ousted an’ your farm weel in han’, 
ye can aye provide for yer ainsels.” 

There was much to tell Mrs. Garth. Ailsa’s 
heart was very full of Sis Gower and her brood : 
what a conscientious, hopeful, loving little house- 
mother it was, with faith in her children’s future, 
faith even in the recreant father ; how those long, 
lean arms washed, ironed, scoured, lifted, and then 
fondled and cradled the baby; what active feet, 
going here and there all day ; and what self-de- 
nial, that scarcely allowed herself enough to eat, 
lest the rest go hungry! Then there were the 
Bealses to discuss. “ David was a’ for drivin’ 
them oot the noo, but upo’ the edge o’ winter, an’ 
wi’out any providin’, it didna seem to me the Lord 
would be pleased wi’ it. I tell’t David the Lord 
had been wi’ them an’ wi’ us a lang time, an’ we 


74 


Ragivccd. 


ought to bear wi’ them the while. They are a 
dreadfu’ lot, but they twa puir unfortunates Pope 
an’ Turk, wi’ their outlandish names, seem to ha’ 
guid in ’em. Ye ken there was foun’ some guid 
thing toward the Lord God o’ Israel in one from 
the house o’ Jeroboam. I wouldna lichtlie the 
grace o’ God, but I ha’ no verra great hopes o’ 
the rest o’ the Bealses.” 

” ‘ Ragweed,’ my husband calls them — ‘ Rag- 
weed,’ ” said Mrs. Garth. 

“ Aye,” said the cautious Scot, “ they may be 
ragweed, sure eno’, but I ha’ heard gardeners say 
that some o’ the fairest flowers that blaw i’ kings’ 
gardens were once common weeds, made flowers 
by care an’ cultivation. We canna tell but some 
o’ the same ragweed may bloom brawl ie some day 
i’ the gardens o’ our God. When I went yon, a 
week ago, I felt my speerit overwhelmed within 
me, an’ my heart within me was desolate ; but 
the Lord has laid his right han’ on me an’ strength- 
ened me, an’ set me upo’ my feet ; he has given 
me an errand out yon to do for him, an’ to do 
God’s errands is aye better than hoardin’ siller or 
livin’ or dyin’ to our ainsels.” 

Janet was another theme of discussion. “ I 
canna mak the lassie oot,” said Ailsa ; ” she talks 
so strange, wi’ gran’ words o’ lace an’ velvet an’ 
, pearls, when she hasna a fresh sack to her back 
or a second gown ! She aye wanners afif intil a 


TJic White Flocks on the Hills. 


75 

gowden future wi’out turnin’ her hand to the 
present needeessity.” 

“ She doesn’t know what to do nor where to 
begin,” said Mrs. Garth. “ She has a keen mind 
and a strong will. She is ambitious. Her ambi- 
tion, her native pride, have wandered into the only 
path opened before them, and that was found in 
some romance that she has read. I would lay 
hold of her pride and ambition as means to make 
her womanly; I would give her just as nice and 
pretty a room as I could, and dress her neatly 
and keep her in school. Let us supply her with 
books, since she likes them, and let books be her 
friends.” 

Finally, on Saturday afternoon, Ailsa returned 
in the surrey, taking with her neat garments for 
Janet and a large bundle of clothing sent by Mrs. 
Garth to Sis for herself and family. She was ac- 
companied by Bruce, majestic in a new suit and 
a Scotch cap, and clasping in his arms a small 
framed picture of the Child Christ. Of all the 
things he had seen in Mrs. Garth’s home, this 
picture of an earnest-faced, serene little Hebrew 
boy most attracted Bruce. He had placed it be- 
fore him in a corner of the sofa and held com- 
munion with it for hours ; he took it with him to 
the table and to bed ; and when about to leave the 
house, disdaining a jumping-jack and a ball, he 
had clasped this picture in his arm, remarking. 


Ragweed. 


76 

“The Holy Boy is coming too.” He had found 
a comrade suited to his need, silent but appre- 
ciative. 

If Bruce was content with his picture, David, 
riding beside the surrey, was proud as any young 
heir newly entered into a fortune. For the first 
time in his life he had two suits of new clothes 
and a supply of shirts and shoes! Further ex- 
planation of his joyful pride would be superfluous. 

Uncle Moses Barr had called to say that there 
would be preaching at the church next day. 
Therefore on Sabbath morning Aunt Ailsa in her 
Sunday best, her Bible folded in a clean kerchief, 
David in his glorious new store-clothes, which he 
had kept prudently at the “ stage-house,” Janet and 
Bruce in great splendor. Sis and Pam and Miss in 
clothes sent by Mrs. Garth, formed a procession 
toward the church. To see them pass by, the 
Beals family had drawn up along the fence. Saul 
sat perched like a crow on a post; Deb, her 
snake-locks streaming, leaned her elbows on the 
topmost rail ; the children, according to their ages, 
thrust their faces between the rails. 

“ Ho !” said Saul. “ Ha 1” cried Deb. “ Hi, yi, 
yi, yi I” squeaked the children, and there was a 
sudden rolling and screwing up of eyes and a 
thrusting out of tongues. If it had not been for 
the sanctity of his new suit, David would have re- 
freshed himself with a fight then and there. 


The White Flocks on the Hills. 


77 


“ Gif ye wadna spier at them, ye wadna ken what 
they puir feckless bodies were daeing,” said Ailsa. 
“ Come awa’, my lad. Does not the Bulk say that 
the weeked laffgh God’s people to scorn, shoot 
out the lip, an’ shake the heid? It is sae theVarl’ 
ower, an’ people maun aye act in accordance wi’ 
their lichts. The warl’ is fu’ o’ licht an’ learnin’ 
an’ Christianity, an’ yon puir vagrums ken naething 
aboot it a’. They canna read, they hanna the 
Buik, they are wi’out God or hope in the warl’; 
an’ yet, David, my mon, they are immortal souls. 
Somebody — the Church, the State, or some per- 
son — is to blame for it, for we are a’ our brithers’ 
keepers, an’ somebody has no kept them.” 

Pope and Turk had not been drawn up in the 
dress parade at the fence. They had quietly de- 
ployed across the fields, and when out of the 
family sight had humbly marched in as the rear- 
guard of their friends. Arrived at the church, as 
they felt unfit to enter, these two passed around 
to the side of the building, where, under an open ' 
window, Turk could gather something of what 
passed within, and translate it in her own fashion 
to Pope, For this child was the only being in the 
world who had cared enough for the dumb boy 
to establish a method of communication with 
him, throwing the succor of human sympathy 
within the wall of silence that beleaguered him 
around. 


78 


Ragiveed. 


Great was the surprise in the little church 
when the delegation headed by David and Ailsa 
entered. 

The Humes, then, after all, were somebody, 
and did not belong to those Bealses. Here was 
the Scotch aunt, who was tearing down and build- 
ing up at “ the stage-house,” and great friends with 
the Garths, magnates of the county-town. Well, 
those Humes were handsome children, and she 
had taken up with Sis Gower too, poor little trick ! 
with her brood of brothers and sisters. 

After service Mr. and Mrs. Gage came up and 
shook hands, and, with Missouri hospitality, in- 
vited the whole seven to dinner, so that they could 
return to service in the afternoon. Mr. Gage was 
eager to know what was to be done. He said the 
Bealses had been as pricks in his eyes and thorns 
in his side. They kept dogs that worried his sheep, 
and a miserable little fice that ran his chickens. 
They robbed his garden and his watermelon-patch 
and his hen-roost. Mrs. Gage, with tears in her 
eyes, explained how they had carried off a water- 
melon she had expected to take the prize at the 
county fair, and had despoiled the chicken-yard 
of a big yellow-legged Brahma rooster. 

David heard and blushed. He had not taken 
part in these predatory expeditions, but he knew 
right well that a great round of that melon, glow- 
ing in crimson, black, green, and white, had dis- 


The White^ Flocks on the Hills. 


79 


appeared under his own spoon, and that down his 
throat had traveled one of the ever-to-be-regretted 
yellow legs of the Brahma rooster. 

“ But I’m glad to see,” .said Mr. Gage, “ that 
you’re not of that stripe. If I’d understood that 
those Bealses were vagrums that had come in on 
you, I’d have helped you to oust them long ago. 
But you struck here about the same time, and 
what is everybody’s business is nobody’s. My 
sheep take my time.” 

“ Do you keep sheep ?” said Ailsa. “ I was 
brought up on a sheep-farm, an’ I ken mair aboot 
sheep than ony ither thing. I lo’e upo’ the hills the 
white flocks. There is naething brings the guid 
Lord so near i’ wark as the wark o’ the shepherd ; 
it is a’ sown an’ glitterin’ wi’ promises. Aye, 
why canna I keep sheep, an’ David Hume also, 
i’ the united Hume Ian’s, ance they Bealses are 
awa’ ?” 

Mr. Gage was delighted. The thieving Bealses 
and their dogs gone, and peaceful, honest sheep 
feeding cm the Hiime uplands, while in the low 
bottom fields between, growing green and nodding, 
the corn for their winter food, and in the meadows 
waving the heavy grass, and, after haying, the ricks 
rising like great brown dunes, — this would be com- 
fort indeed ! He had a hundred and fifty ewes 
which he could not winter. Why should not 
Ailsa buy them to begin her flocks? Fortune 


8o Ragiveed. 

was benignant — so benignant that he dreamed of 
these schemes through all the afternoon service. 

The weeks went by: “the stage-house” was 
finished and set in order; sheds had been built 
for sheep, and a yard with troughs, and a hundred 
and fifty ewes had been driven up the road from 
Mr. Gage’s farm to Ailsa’s. 

The fire was lit on the hearth — a sacred fire, 
kin to that which burned in the tabernacle of the 
Lord. Ailsa Crathie, “ after much tossing both by 
land and the high sea,” had found a safe habitation 
and gathered about her a family of her own blood 
— a condition dear to the soul of every true Scot. 
David, placed at the head of the well-set table, 
given a seat of honor by the fire, felt his heart 
swell with pride. 

The day was done — the first day in the new 
home. Ailsa took the Book from the stand in 
the corner : 

“ Sit ye a’ down, childer ; we will noo gie our- 
sels an’ our hoose to God in worship.” 

“ The Holy Boy is coming too,” said Bruce, 
taking his stool, holding his picture under his 
arm, 

“Aye, he is here,” said Ailsa, and her face 
shone bright as in the day “ when a holy solem- 
nity is kept, and gladness of heart.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


‘‘AN’ YO’S GWINE CHA’GE ME!” ' 

“ Belubbed fellow-trablers, in boldin’ forth to-day 
I haven’t got no special tex’ for what I’s goin’ ter say. 

My sermon will be berry short, an’ dis yere am'de tex’ : 

Dat half-way doin’s ain’t no ’count in dis worl’ nor de nex’.” 

T he buggy with yellow wheels turned up the 
, lane to the house seized and held by “ the 
Bealses.” The late-lingering Indian summer made 
all the land beautiful. That morning “ the Bealses ” 
had killed a pig which had all summer foraged for 
itself in the woods along the brook. Just as it 
was reverting to its ancestral state as a wild boar, 
Pope and Turk gave chase to it, Saul slaughtered 
it, and, having borrowed Mose Barr’s great iron 
kettle and some other neighbor’s^ saw and big 
knife, the Beals family, gathered about the fire 
under the kettle, were trying out a modicum of 
lard, chopping sausage, cutting up meat, and gen- 
erally enjoying themselves. 

“ Where hast thou been, sister ? — ‘ Killing swine.’ 

' Double, double, toil and trouble. 

Fire burn, and cauldron bubble,” 


6 


81 


82 


Ragiueed. 


hummed Mrs, , Garth. “I think Shakespeare’s 
prophetic soul must have foreseen this picture 
before he wrote the witch parts of Macbeth.” 

” Hello !” said Dr. Garth ; ” you all seem to be 
busy.” 

“ Hevin’ a reg’lar picnic,” said Saul, tossing fat 
into the pot. 

“ Are you going to be here all winter ?” asked 
Mrs. Garth. 

“ Whar else would we be, whatever ?” demand- 
ed Mistress Beals, 

“ As that is so, we may be able to do you a 
good turn,” said Mrs. Garth, amiably. “ Over in 
the town is a very fine school, a State school for 
the deaf and dumb. If you will send your son 
Pope over there, he can be taught to read and 
write, to do shoemaking, printing, or carpentry, 
so that he can earn a good living. It will be no 
expense to you — even his clothes will be provided. 
He can go at once if you like.” 

” Wal, I don’t like. What business is it of 
yours, or anybody’s, if Pope is a dummy ? Ef he 
can’t talk, he can’t talk back sass like the rest of 
’em, nor cuss like his dad.” 

“ He cannot be taught to talk, you know, but 
he can learn to read and to work and to be a good 
man.” 

“ Wal, our young ’uns. I’ll let you know, ain’t 
gwine to be no better nor we be. We can’t read. 


‘*An’ Vo’s Givine CJui'gc Me!” 


83 


an’ they ain’t gwine to, an’ nobody needn’t come 
’round here meddlin’ with what b’longs to us, I 
can tell you. Pope ain’t gwine to larn nothin’,” 

“ See, here, man,” said Dr. Garth to Saul ; “ it 
is your right and duty as a father to have that boy 
educated so far as he can be. Won’t you send 
him over to the school, if only for your own 
good ?” 

“ Deb kin have her own way ’bout the boy,” 
said Saul, lazily, “ an’ I ain’t goin’ to vote to have 
him go off ’les’ we’uns is paid for his work. He 
ain’t free till he’s twenty-one, an’ he has to work 
for us till then, ’les’ somebody gives us a dollar a 
day for his freedom.” 

” I won’t let him go for no dollar a day,” said 
Deb, angrily. 

” But think how much more useful he would 
be to you if he only knew something !” urged the 
doctor. 

“Yer needn’t say no more; I won’t, ’cause I 
won’t,” said Deb, 

“At least, I am sure you must want your little 
girl’s face cured,” said Mrs. Garth, glancing at 
Turk, who, with her apron held over the bridge 
of her nose, stood behind her mother. ” There 
is a surgeon in St. Louis who will make her face 
right for nothing, and I will pay her board in the 
hospital, and some young ladies over in the town 
will fit her out for the trip and pay her fare, if 


84 


Ragiveed. 


you will let her go. The schoolteacher tells us 
she is very bright indeed. If you have her defect 
cured, some day she may be a teacher too.” 

“ Set that gal up fer a teacher !” shrieked Deb. 
“ Get her a lot of new clo’es, an’ take her off trips 
on the cyars, an’ pay her keep in Saint Louis ! 
What’s good enough fer me is good enough fer 
her, an’ nobody dressed me up an’ sent me off 
trips.” Then, with a sudden change of tone, she 
added: “Turk can’t go nowhar whatever ’thout 
me. Ef you’ll dress me up and send me ’long 
to St. Louis, an’ pay my keep, why, I’ll let 
her go.” 

“ No, you don’t, old woman,” put in Saul ; “ you 
don’t go off a-gallivantin’ an’ me lef’ home, ye 
don’t.” 

“ What you ask is impossible,” said Doctor 
Garth ; “ but, as you are so opposed to the poor 
child’s having a trip and good clothes, why, I will 
take her over to the town for three or four weeks, 
and perform the operation myself, rather than 
have her left as she is.” 

“ No, you won’t,” said Deb ; “ she’ll stay jes’ as 
she was made. It’s none of your business. S’pose 
she does look bad ? — it don’t hurt.” 

“ Hurt ! she suffers more from it every day,” 
cried Mrs. Garth, “ than you are capable of suf- 
fering in a lifetime ! It is all your fault some way, 
no doubt, and if your heart were not as hard as 


“Ah’ Vo’s Gwine Cha’ge Me!” 85 

a stone, you would give your life to remedy her 
misfortune, if it were necessary,” 

“ Well, neither of you needn’t come here med- 
dlin’ an’ tellin’ us what to do,” said Deb, turning 
her back, stirring the kettle, and ordering Turk 
to go for more wood. 

” Once for all,” said Doctor Garth, clearly, 
“ over at the town is a good school where your 
dumb boy can be taught ; and at my house is a 
cure for Turk’s face.” 

“ We don’t know nor care nothin’ ’bout it,” said 
Saul ; but behind these brutal parents Dr. Garth 
saw fixed upon him the earnest glance of a pair 
of big dark-blue eyes full of longing and misery. 
He answered that look by a long, firm gaze ; then, 
saying to his wife, ” We can do nothing ; come 
away,” he turned Dandy’s head toward the road. 

“ Confounded fiends !” said the doctor furiously, 
between his teeth. 

” Can nothing be done ?” cried Mrs. Garth. 
” Cannot we apply to the courts ?” 

” There is no law under which we could plead 
a case,” said the doctor, “ Pope and Turk are 
neither maimed, frozen, slashed, nor imprisoned ; 
aerainst such cruelties there would be redress in 
law; but the Bealses confine themselves to the 
sharper cruelty of keeping the boy in brutal igno- 
rance, and the girl in an agony of shame over a 
deformity; and against such there is no law. 


86 


Ragweed. 


What we need is a la>v for compulsory education, 
and under that we could get the boy. There 
•should also be a law that all deformities should 
be reported at birth, and promptly remedied, as 
far as possible, at the expense of the parents or the 
State. How many club-feet, hare-lips, deformed 
hands and shoulders, I have seen, where ignorant 
parents did not know that remedy was possible, 
or, knowing it, were too poor or too stingy or too 
indifferent to apply for it ! It is the duty of every 
county clerk to report the case of every deaf 
mute; but the duty is often neglected, so that, 
incredible as it may seem, parents in the very 
State or county with an institution know nothing 
of its advantages. Again, as in this case, the 
proffered good is recognized and rejected. The 
State, as the greater parent of the child, should 
protect it from the curse of ignorance and from 
neglected deformity. That would be for the ben- 
efit of the State. There would be less criminals, 
and fewer helpless paupers for the State to support 
— and the glory of a State is a moral, educated 
population, devoid of physical defect.” 

Mrs. Garth had asked David Hume to defer 
any warning of ejection to the Beals faction until 
she had made her effort to remove Pope to the 
protection of the institution for deaf mutes, and 
to secure attention for Turk. Possibly these two, 
removed for a time, would not be desired back. 


Vo's Givinc CJia'ge Me!" 87 

The undertaking having ignominiously failed, she 
stopped at Ailsa’s to notify them. 

“ It’s verra cruel,” said Ailsa ; “ yon puir bairnie 
Turk gangs aboot wi’ her apron ower her mou’ 
an’ tears in her eyes for verra shame. An’ at the 
schule there are aye some ill-faured callents to 
mak’ jibes at her an’ flyte her for her bad mou’. 
Her mither winna let her coom here to get a bit 
teachin’ fro’ me, but I gie her a gown an’ a wrap, 
an’ she slips aff to the kirk when there’s preachin’, 
an’ some days she gets here for a little teachin’ in 
needlework an’ housework an’ keepin’ hersel’ tidy. 
What can a body do, mem? — the Buik is clear 
against deceivin’ an’ disobeyin’, an’ yet ane canna 
thole let a bairn grow up like a brute !” 

“ Certainly not. These laws are for the normal 
relation, not for such exceptional cases as this. 
The human parents being worse than brutes, you 
must bring the poor children into as close rela- 
tions as possible with Ihe heavenly Parent. Let 
them know they have a friend somewhere. How 
do you come on with your Hume children?” 

“ Verra weel, considerin’. Janet goes to school 
an’ tak’s hold richt weel o’ needlework an a’ 
housewifely ways. David is a braw lad for work, 
but he doesna tak’ to his buik as he suld if he is 
to prosper. Ye ken, mem, that ane canna touch 
pitch an’ no be defiled, an’ for sure my bairns 
have brocht fro’ they Bealses wheen ill-faured 


'88 


Ragzvccd. 


ways an’’ lang’age that is no richt. But I expectit 
no less, for they see the evil an’ are gey ready to 
correct it, an’ as there is bluid an’ dear love be- 
tween us a’, we shall win through. The bairn 
Bruce seems no to have ta’en in ony o’ their evil. 
He bein’ sae young, I suld ha’ expectit he wad 
ha’ the maist evil fro’ foregatherin’ wi’ sic gypsies ; 
but he is aye quiet an’ biddable, an’ clean-mou’ed 
when he sees fit to speak at a’, an’ he seldom 
speaks save to spier at ye some auld-farrant ques- 
tions about sternies an’ flowers an’ snow-flakes, 
or his frien’ the Holy Boy, as he ca’s him ; an’ 
somewhiles it seems to me maist like papistry an’ 
worship o’ images to see him sit luikin’ at yon 
picture, or talkin’ wi’ it, tellin’ it a’ his queerly 
thochts*. When he gets an apple or a cake or a 
sweetie, he gies his picture some, layin’ it down 
before it wi’ a smile, sayin’, ‘ Tak’ some.’ Is it 
wrong ?” 

“ No,” said Mrs. Garth'; ” what safer companion 
can he have than his picture ? There is kindred 
between souls, Ailsa, as between blood relations, 
and somewhere there has been an artist soul 
whose ideal of a noble, sinless, divine child is just 
the ideal hidden in Bruce’s heart of all that he can 
love most. Make his picture a means of bringing 
him close to the child Christ in daily thought. 
I have sometimes wondered what a young life 
would be, nurtured on and measured by the Christ 


"An’ Yo's Givinc CJidgc Me!" 89 

Child, and so daily from child to boy, from boy to 
youth, from youth to man, keeping that one 
measure and friendship close alongside of one’s 
life; and at last, in the prime of manhood, when 
life is sweetest and strongest, realizing that self- 
nunciation which for us trod the way of the cross, 
of death and burial ; and then for ever after living 
in the light and worship of the ascended Christ 
who went up on high, leading captivity captive 
and securing good gifts for men,” 

“ Aye,” said Ailsa, “ they are thochts to feed 
upon. Yon is the chiel Bruce wi’ a pet sheep; 
he seems to unnerstan’ sheep. When I look at 
his calm broo an’ deep, thochtfu’ eyes I hear the 
wards o’ the psalm, ‘ Though ye hae lain among 
the pots, yet shall ye be as the wings o’ a dove 
covered wi’ siller, an’ her feathers wi’ yellow goold.’ 
He got no ill fro’ they Bealses, either because o’ 
his innocence or his silent, thochtfu’ ways. I 
hope it is no supersteetion to fancy the Lord has 
had an angel aye by the chiel to screen him. As 
for the ithers, they will coom a’ richt some day. 
But what could I expec’ ? They that board wi’ 
cats maun look for scarts, sure eno’.” 

The Bealses had not within two or three days 
finished their .self-gratulations and scornful pride in 
the ignominious rout of “ them yellow-buggy peo- 
ple ” when their security was invaded by David 
Hume and Lawyer Porter. David in new clothes, 


90 


Ragweed. 


David the head of the family, David with his 
heavy brown locks well combed, David with a 
hundred and fifty sheep under his hand, was no 
longer the lazy, slouching, wide-eyed boy of a few 
weeks before. David asserted himself, he fairly 
towered, and he surveyed the wide rolling acres 
with the eye of a landlord. 

“ Beals,” said Mr. Porter, “ we have come to 
notify you that you must vacate this place the 
first of April. Until then, as the weather is com- 
ing cold, and you are a large, ill-provided family, 
Hume will allow you to stay here.” 

“ He will !” said Deb. “ We’ll stay here as long 
as we like, for him.” 

“See here,” said Mr. Porter; “the court has 
made me guardian of these Hume children.” 

“ Do you call that great gawking lummox a 
child?” shrilled Deb. 

“ In the eyes of the law he is an infant, though 
of stately height.” 

Hearing himself commended, David straight- 
ened his back bravely. 

“ An’ you an’ he are cornin’ hyar warnin’ us 
out,” shrieked Mrs. Beals, “ when I’ve plumb wore 
myself to a frazzle workin’ for that grand rascal, 
feedin’ an’ doin’ for him for two year, an’ he eatin’ 
for ten ! If he wants we’uns to go, let him pay 
his board.” 

“You have had in the rent all you’ll get, 


*'An' Yo's Gwinc Chage Me!" 91 

Beals, so prepare to go in April,” said Mr. Porter, 
calmly. 

But Mrs. Beals eyed her partner : 

“ If you back down to them, Beals, you’ll have 
me to settle with. I’ll wear you out, sure.” 

“ If we’re warned out,” said Beals, who was 
already weary of a settled life, and longing for 
the road, “ he’ll be welcome to what’s left of it.” 

” Mark you,” said Mr. Porter, ” I shall look after 
this place closely, and if you burn up the fences, 
or tear down the porch and out-buildings, or 
destroy the doors and windows, you’ll be arrested 
for wanton destruction of property. You’ve noth- 
ing to pay damages with, but you two can go 
to jail, and the county will farm out your chil- 
dren. That would be better for them— and, on 
the whole, I sha’n’t be very sorry if you destroy 
things.” 

The vision of four prison walls was terrible to 
these born wanderers ; the slow moving along the 
roads, the camps on the outskirts of woodlands, 
the idleness and freedom, the wide air, the poach- 
ing on gardens, hen-roosts, pig-sties, and clothes- 
yards, were dear delights, and* they would rather 
stay revengeful hands than risk the loss of the 
joys of roaming. 

Mr. Porter saw that they quailed. “ 1 11 not 
forget what I say,” he added ; “ and do you fix 
your plans to go in April.” 


92 Ragweed. 

As he walked back with David to Ailsa’s house 
he said : “ David, it was your childishness and ig- 
norance that caused you to be saddled with that 
degraded crew. The childishness will pass with 
years, but not the ignorance, unless you take 
measures. If you are not to be cheated, over- 
reached, scorned, and always at the lowest level 
of your neighborhood, you must learn what will 
put you on a level with the best. You must 
study and read and learn to cast accounts well. 
You must take the county paper and an agricul- 
tural paper; and, David, if you are going to be 
a man at all, you might as well aim to be the best 
kind of a man. Take a religious paper, and know 
what is going on in the world of work and religion 
and charity. Don’t be a clod ; don’t be merely a 
big fine animal : be a man.” 

They were standing on the door-step, and Ailsa 
heard them. She came out. “ David is 'shamed 
to go to school,” she said, “ bein’ heid an’ shouthers 
aboon the lave ; an’, moreover, he’s wanted wi’ the 
sheep. But if David will stick to his learnin’ i’ 
the e’enings. I’ll board the schulemaister to teach 
him.” » 

” Mistress Crathie is willing to make sacrifices 
for you, David.” 

“An’ what for no should I mak’ sacrifices aii’ 
spen’ a bit o’ siller on my ain cousins three times 
removed ?” said Ailsa. 


Vh’s Gzvhie Change Me! 


93 


“Take the offer, David,” said Mr. Porter, “and 
ril send you some books and papers and maga- 
zines about sheep.” 

“ I’ll do it,” said David. “ It will come tough, 
but I won’t be like the Bealses.” 

“ Hoot !” said Ailsa ; “ the warl’ wad be turnin’ 
withershins indeed gif a Hume could level wi’ the 
Bealses.” 

David manfully tackled his studies under the 
direction of the schoolmaster, and for two hours 
every evening toiled with book, pencil, and pen. 
After that he heard the master read “ sheep books,” 
but in his heart believed Uncle Moses Barr a bet- 
ter instructor than the printed pages. Mr. Gage 
had recommended as shepherd and factotum Un- 
cle Moses, who had established himself for a year 
past in a cabin on Ailsa’s land. Uncle Mose, like 
most of the negroes of his generation, had allowed 
his children to grow up idle and drunken, and 
had now on his hands a troop of grandchildren 
to* support. It was very difficult for him to get 
any work out of these juveniles, but one day he 
had brought to the barn Ike, his ten-year-old 
grandson, to cut fodder in a corn-cutter for the 
sheep. Ike, sitting melancholy under the shadow 
of the barn, was found by Si Beals, who invited 
him to come along and ask “ Mis’ Jonsing ” for 
some corn to pop. 

“ I’s got to stay ’n’ wuk fer gran’dad,” said Ike ; 


94 Ragivced. 

“ wisht you’d stay an’ he’p me. Nen I’d be done, 
an’ go to Mis’ Jonsing’s wid yo’.” 

“ Ketch me workin’ fer enybody !” said the 
youthful Beals. 

“ Oh, yo’ stay !” said the crafty little Ike ; “ de 
ole man can’t git me to wuk very long. I’ll 
cut. Mis’ Jonsing down by de brook likes me 
more’n she does you ; she’ll gib more co’n ef 
I’m ’long.” 

“ I’ll wait fer you,” said Si, “ down in the fiel’ 
ridin’ yo’ grandad’s mule.” 

” No, Si ; yo’ stay an’ he’p me cut fodder, an’ 
I’ll gib yo’ some ob de pay, an’ we’ll go git a team 
an’ take a ride. I’s gwine to cha’ge him fo’ my 
wuk ; I won’t wuk fo’ noffin.” 

By this time Uncle Mose, who, within the barn, 
had heard all, was filled with mighty wrath ; he 
leaned half-way out of the nearest window, and 
his baleful eyes fixed the scion of his house. 

“ So yo’s gwine cha’ge me, is yo’ ?” he shouted. 
” Who done took cyar ob yo’ ebber since yo’ was 
bawn, and of yo’ daddy befo’ yo’ ? Who sent 
yo’ to school, whar yo’ doan learn noffin’ ? Who 
buyed dem shoes yo’ hab on ? Who git yo’ dat 
coat on yo’ back ? Who buys all yo’ vittles, yo’ 
little nigga? An’ yo’s gwine cha’ge me! Who 
tole yo’ yo’ mout be sittin’ dar wid dat Bealses ? 
Yo’ come ob decent fambly. De Barrs was plumb 
gentlemen, an’ no low-down white trash like 


‘*An’ Vh’s Gzvine CJia'ge Me!'' 95 

Bealses. De Barrs raised me to be somebody, 
an’ tink well ob myse’f ; nebber ’spected a boy 
ob mine ’d be coaxin’ a mis’ble wagon-tramper to 
’sociate wid him ; dar you sit demeanin’ ob yer- 
se’f ; an’ yo’s gwine cha’ge me ! What yo’ tink 
de worl’ cornin’ to when little niggas like yo’ lie 
roun’ an’ do noffin ? ’Spec’ it’s gwine rain bacon 
an’ griddle-cakes on yo’ ? Yo’ ’lows yo’ll hire a 
team an’ go dribin’ roun’ like young white gem- 
men, does yo’ ? He’s gwine down in pascher lot 
to ride my mule, am he ? An’ yo’s gwine share 
pay wid him, an’ yo’ doan wuk fer noffin, an’ 
you’s gwine cha’ge me !” 

Here the buggy with yellow wheels came near, 
and Doctor Garth, seeing that the gray-haired ne- 
gro waxed eloquent, stopped to get the benefit of 
his discourse. 

Uncle Mose rolled his lurid eyes toward the 
yellow wheels : “ Doan yo’ listen to me, boss. 
Jes dribe on whar you’s goin’. Dis yere am a 
fambly matter I’m spatiatin’ upon, an’ I kin set- 
tle it ’thout you.” 

Dr. Garth drove on laughing, and the irate 
Uncle Mose continued his discourse : “ Yo’ Ike, 
yo’s jes de mos’ ornary boy roun’ ’cept Bealses. 
Teacher says yo’ doan learn noffin ; yo’ don’t earn 
yo’ keep. ’Spec’ me to be wukin’ an’ worryin’ fo’ 
yo’ from mawnin’ till night, does yo’ ? Who’s got 
a right to gib yo’ orders, ef I haben’t ? Who’s got 


96 


Ragtveed. 


a right to yo’ wuk ? Who’s got his min’ made up 
to gib yo’ a lickin’ ? I’ll wear yo’ out, see ef I 
doan. An’ when I comes cha’gin’ on yo’ wid a 
good hick’ry stick, yo’ll change yo’ min’ ’bout 
gwine cha’ge me !” 

Here Uncle Mose, closing his oration, went with 
such determination for a piece of hickory that Si 
Beals fled incontinent, and Ike, grasping the han- 
dle of the corn-cutter and whirling it with all his 
might, cried in a lamentable voice, “ Doan yo’ see 
how hard I’s wukin’, gran’dad ?” 

“Wukin’ hard, is yo’? You’ll wuk all day, 
or dat hick’ry stick’ll fin’ out de reason why, fo’ 
suah.” 

This announcement fell on Ike’s head like a 
brick. He bent himself like a bow over the han- 
dle of the corn-cutter, and as it went round and 
round no prisoner in a treadmill, no horse tramp- 
ing on a wheel at a wood-sawing, ever looked so 
dejected as Uncle Mose Barr’s Ike. 


CHAPTER VII. 

AILSA’S ERRAND FOR HER LORD. 

“And following her beloved Lord 
In decent poverty. 

She makes her life one sweet accord 
And deed of charity, 

“ T CANNA unnerstan’ why winter doesna come,” 
J- said Ailsa often. 

The last days of the year drew nigh. Ailsa had 
been accustomed to seeing snow falling thickly in 
November, filling the dale§, lying deep on the hills, 
whirling in blinding swirls, and endangering all 
exposed flocks. She had known winter days when 
the lamps were kept burning until nine o’clock in 
the morning, and were lit again between three and 
four in the afternoon. But here the shortest days 
of the year had come, and there was a fine golden 
^jght glowing across the land at seven in the morn- 
ing ; at five in the afternoon the sunset pink was 
changing to gray ; and there had been no snow 
but a few flurries which left little white wreaths 
curled under the shelter of the fences. The sheep 
were out all day nibbling in the fields, and coming 
7 97 


98 Ragweed. 

trooping in at four to be fed with ground corn and 
salt at the troughs. 

This mild winter of the West was a strange 
experience to Ailsa. She did not feel sure that 
she enjoyed it; she whispered to herself that there 
was something uncanny in having no swirling 
storms ; and when there was a week when icicles 
hung from the eaves, and glittering mail bound 
the well-ropes, and the water-barrel' was frozen 
over, Ailsa felt more at home. It was like what 
she had always known of winter. 

She was busy enough. She was an indefatiga- 
ble knitter, and her notions of the proper number 
of pairs of socks for a family of four kept her nee- 
dles clicking ; she boarded the schoolmaster ; and 
she found plenty of sewing to do in furnishing 
bedding and clothing for this family who had come 
to her unprovided with anything but needs. Be- 
sides all this, Ailsa often took care of the baby for 
Sis Gower, and gave Sis lessons in sewing, knit- 
ting, or various kinds of work ; while sometimes on 
Saturday poor Turk found opportunity to escape 
to “ the stage-house ” for varied instruction and for 
talks about the school which could teach “ dum- 
mies ’’and about the surgery which could adjust 
“such dreadful faces.’’ 

Turk went to school. Satisfied as “ the Bealses ’’ 
were with their ignorance, they had realized that 
it might be convenient to have one member of the 


Ailsa's Errand for her Lord. 99 

family able to read and write ; and, as Turk had 
insisted upon going to school, she went. 

The schoolmaster \^as a great comfort to Ailsa. 
He was a young man working his own way 
through college, with a view to the ministry, and 
Mistress Crathie regarded him as already crowned 
with the nimbus of the sacred desk ; his foot was 
“ a’ ready on they poopit stairs,” she said, and so 
to her in a lofty and most honorable path. 

As soon as the five o’clock supper was cleared 
away, the books came out. The schoolmaster 
pursued the studies that he had already begun in 
college, and meanwhile gave Janet help about 
” sums ” and geography questions, and drilled 
David in writing and arithmetic, and had him 
read the newspapers or a magazine aloud. It is 
true that ofttimes the master suspected that David’s 
skull was about as thick as his crop of shaggy 
brown hair, but then there was one comfort : if 
ever an idea got into his head, it went in to stay ; 
and David had such a Scotch tenacity of purpose 
that, having once undertaken to learn something, 
he would never give over until his end was gained. 

At half-past eight the books were put away, the 
lamp was turned low, and the household gathered 
about the fire to talk. Bruce, wide-eyed, sat on 
the schoolmaster’s knee. While study was going 
on, Bruce had filched his share from the tree 
of knowledge : “ What’s this ?” “ What’s that ?” 


lOO Ragweed. 

“ Show me how to write or ;ir or a!' “ Make 

me my name.” And Bruce made more progress 
than the other two put together, and before any 
one was aware of it he could read. 

The gala time of the day for Bruce — and, in- 
deed, for the others — was this hour after lessons. 
Ailsa had been greatly disturbed by the dense ^ 
ignorance of her Hume relatives in regard to the 
Scriptures. The Bible was to her especially ” the 
Book its imagery filled her mind, and its ex- 
pressions her speech. Entered into the domain 
of Scripture, she lost her broadest Scottice, which, 
moreover, was daily somewhat softening, hearing 
only what she called “ fair English ” spoken. In 
those evening hours, while Ailsa talked, the 
listening Hurries had before their eyes that gar- 
den which the Lord planted eastward in Eden, 
wherein was all that was pleasant to the eye and 
good for food ; they heard the serpent talk with 
Eve ; they shuddered at the doom and the exile ; 
they trembled when fell the fatal blow of Cain ; 
and they fled with him into the land where cities 
rose and brass was forged and iron rung. With 
Noah they gathered strange four-footed, creeping, 
and winged things into the ark ; they saw the 
world drowned, the floods ebb away ; they went 
out with Abraham with God for a leader, followed 
Eleazar on his mission, and took different sides 
in the strife between Esau and Jacob. David 


Aiha's Errand for her Lord. loi 

shook his thick locks and guessed that Esau was 
not so much to blame as Jacob ; and demanded, 
“ What right had Jacob to wear his brother’s Sun- 
day clothes ?” With Joseph they were sold into 
captivity, and climbed with swift steps the golden 
rounds of the ladder of glory, and sat down be- 
side the Pharaoh on his throne. With Moses 
they performed wonders, saw the plagues, and in 
that night of doom led out a rescued people. 
With Samuel they heard the voice of God, and 
with David slew Goliath ; and David Hume en- 
vied his ancient namesake, and sighed in utter 
amazement when he heard how Israel’s young 
king, Solomon, chose wisdom as better than long 
life or rubies or dominion. That was quite beyond 
David’s comprehension, and was even more aston- 
ishing than going with Daniel into a den of lions, 
or with the three Hebrews into the seven-fold 
heated furnace. 

At other times Ailsa dwelt on the history of 
her Lord — his wonderful birth, his holy life, his 
deeds of mercy, his friendships, his parables, his 
ungrateful people, the night when all forsook him, 
the day when the heavens were dark and the earth 
trembled and the graves were opened. She told 
of the glory of the Resurrection morning, the 
splendors of the Ascension day. Then the book 
of Revelation fired her tongue, and she spoke of a 
new heavens and a new earth, a “ happy, blood- 


102 


Ragivecd. 


bought people ” wandering in fadeless day, Satan 
bound, and right triumphant. 

Lighting up all this discourse with the apoc- 
alyptic imagery of beasts and cherubim, angels 
and resplendent hosts of saints, seraphs, thrones, 
altars, horses panoplied for war, bending rainbows, 
and voices like the sound of many waters, she en- 
tranced her listeners ; they were spell-bound, their 
eyes glowed, their breath came short and panting ; 
they were a part of what they heard. 

The schoolmaster contributed his share to these 
evening talks. He told stories of heroes, of pil- 
grim, Puritan, and cavalier; he told of the won- 
drous ways of birds, bees, ants, beetles ; he talked 
about the stars, the planets, the birth of worlds. 
These stories caused the eyes of Bruce to glow, 
large and luminous like moons ; he felt as if he 
were living in a perennial raree show. Even Da- 
vid’s slow thoughts were stirred and quickened ; 
now he could not look at the skies hung with 
flaming lamps, the clouds chasing each other, the 
waters doing their work, — he could not drive the 
share through the sod, nor cut the fallen trees, 
without thought about the marvels he had heard. 

The schoolmaster comforted Ailsa in her anx- 
ieties about her Hume childre'n. ' 

“ I’m fashm’ mysel’ aboot Janet,” she said ; “ she 
thinks o’er weel o’ hersen. She taks oop a hantle 
o’ time decoratin’ her room an’ trimmin’ up her 


Ailsa's Errand for Jicr Lord. 103 

ainsel ; d’ye notice hoo she stan’s before yon glass, 
curlin’ the ends o’ her braids an’ strokin’ her eye- 
brows an’ turnin’ her head hither an’ yon, like a 
pigeon i’ the sun ?” 

The schoolmaster laughed : “ She is only mak- 
ing up for lost time, when she had no glass and 
no clean clothes. Do not worry about Janet. 
She does not think too much of herself I wish 
some of the other girls in my school thought more 
of themselves. Janet studies hard ; she tries to 
improve ; she aims high in good manners ; she is 
quiet, and not pert and bold. When the trustees 
or visitors come in, she is my show girl for her 
lessons and behavior. When she has seen more 
of the world, she w'ill di.scover that she is by no 
means the prettiest and best-dressed person in 
existence, and she will lose her little vanities.” 

“Aye, I hope sae,” said Ailsa; but she was 
still anxiou.s. 

“ Janet, Janet,” she would say, “ favor is deceit- 
fu’ and beauty is vain ; but a woman that feareth 
God, she shall be praised.” 

“But, Aunt Ailsa,” said Janet, “can’t I fear 
God just as much if my hair is curled and my 
apron is real stiff starched ?” 

“Aye, na doot; but ye»maunna care sae much 
for appearances. The Buik says, ‘ The Lord look- 
eth upo’ the heart,’ an’ ye ought sae.” 

Poor Janet was greatly puzzled. Exactly what 


104 


Ragweed. 


was meant by her heart, or how she should look at 
it, she did not know, but she knew it was a joyful 
thing to go to school neatly dressed, to have help 
in her lessons, and to have a pretty bed-room and 
as nice a home as there was in the neighborhood. 
She thought with disgust of her sojourning with the 
Bealses, and she never spoke to one of them now 
but poor Turk. Janet looked so crestfallen over 
Ailsa’s remarks that the good dame made haste 
to reassure her: 

“ Dinna greet, lassie ; ye dae as weel as ye ken 
hoo, an’ I ne’er saw a lass tak better to knittin’ 
an’ sewin’ and housewifely ways.” 

Certainly, Janet was industrious and obliging. 
At the Christmas vacation she went and kept 
house for Sis Gower for a week, so that Sis could 
go to Mrs. Garth’s and learn to run a sewing- 
machine and to knot quilts. A circle of King’s 
Daughters had heard of Sis, and were ready to 
give her a machine, so that she might earn her liv- 
ing in an easier way than by washing and scrubbing. 

That week was the gala time of Sis Gower’s life. 
To have three fine meals a day, a warm house, 
and nothing to do but to learn how to sew on a 
machine ! To have those lovely young ladies come 
to see her, take her out^driving, make things pleas- 
ant for her, and buy her aprons and handkerchiefs 
and shoes ! Sis found it as hard to believe that I 
was I as the dame whose petticoats were cut all 


Ailsa’s Errand for her Lord. 105 

round about when she was on her way to market. 
Was she really Sis Gower ? and yet a lady was tell- 
ing her to hold her shoulders back and her chin 
in, and taking an interest in how she looked ! 

“ Why do you worry yourself with that long, 
freckle-faced girl ?” cried one of Mrs. Garth’s 
acquaintances when that lady made the instruc- 
tion of Sis an excuse for not going out to spend 
the day. 

“These,” said Mrs. Garth, “are of the little 
errands one does for God. Wherever, in the 
long distances of an endless life, my paths may 
lie, I know at least that I shall never come this 
way again ; along this road that I travel but 
once, why not make some flowers spring up by 
the largess of a word or a smile ?” 

When Sis Gower came home, bringing a sew- 
ing-machine and various other presents, all the 
neighborhood shared her joy, and David and the 
schoolmaster achieved a sign : “ Machine sewing 
done ; quilts made ; comforts knotted ; knitting,” 
which thenceforth ornamented Sis Gower’s front 
yard. 

David was Sis Gower’s good genius : he cut 
her wood ; he mended her roof, chimney, and 
fence ; he threatened Sikey and Pam with thrash- 
ings if they were not strictly obedient ; he brought 
her birch-bark, sassafras, and slippery elm from the 
woods. When work was going on in the long- 


io6 


Rag^ivecd. 


neglected front yard of Aunt Ailsa’s house, and 
walks were made, and flower-beds were set out, 
and trees were planted, and small fruits were put 
in sheltered rows, David turned his attention to 
the needs of Sis, and she too had a flower-bed 
spaded up ready for spring, and evergreens and 
maples for future shade, while some of the peonies, 
iris, lilacs, currants, gooseberries, and plums, do- 
nated by Mr. Johnson, Mr. Gage, and others, went 
to Sis. 

“ That is a kind thocht o’ you, David,” said 
Aunt Ailsa. “ The widow an’ the orphan sit close 
to the heart o’ our God, an’ the Bulk says, ‘ Blessed 
is he that considereth the poor.’ ” 

“ That night Sis Gower’s mother died,” said 
David, “ she said, ‘ Oh, who will help my poor 
children!’ I was standin’ over by' the stove, and 
I looked at her and nodded my head. I don’t 
know if she saw me. Maybe she did. Anyway, I 
know what I meant by it, only, until you came, I 
didn’t know what ought to be done over and above 
wood-cuttin’ or diggin’ the garden.” 

” Weel, David, the Buik says that ‘ pure religion 
an’ undefiled before God an’ the Faither is this, 
To visit the fatherless and widows in their afflic- 
tion, an’ keep himself unspotted fro’ the warl’.” 

The Book ! It was Ailsa’s court of appeal. 
When questions arose as to right or wrong, 
when Janet and David disputed, or when David’s 


A Us as Errand for her Lord. 107 

easily-kindled anger arose, “ Wrax me the Bulk,” 
said Ailsa, “ an’ I’ll deal ye oot the Lord’s opin- 
eeons.” And when she had found her text and 
read it clearly, she laid by her Book, for to her 
mind the affair was settled ; nor did her family 
dispute it. 

“ Mr. Perry’s mules have been tearing around 
our pasture lot among the sheep !” cried David. 
“ If he’s going to keep mules, he ought to build 
mule fences ; an’ that’s his line of fence to keep 
up, not ours. If I see his mules there again. I’ll 
fire rocks at them : that will show him what to 
look for.” 

“ The Buik says, ‘ Dearly beloved, avenge not 
yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath ;’ 
also, David, it says that if one offends us, we are to 
go an’ tell him his fault, between oursel’s and him 
alone. You’re to go an’ speak peaceably to Mr. 
Perry about they mules, for ‘ a sof’ answer turneth 
away wrath, but grievous words stir oop anger.’ ” 

Sometimes when Sabbath came, now that the 
novelty of going to church in new clothes was 
over, David preferred to stay at home. “ Listen, 
David, till the words o’ the Buik,” said Ailsa, 
turning to her volume of laws and ordinances ; 
“ ‘ Forsake not the assembling of yoursels to- 
geither ;’ ‘ I was glad when they said unto me. Let 
us go into the hoose o’ the Lord ;’ ‘ Lord, I have 
loved the habitation o’ thy hoose, an’ the place 


io8 


Ragweed. 


where thine honor dwelleth ‘ I had rather be a ' 
doorkeeper i’ the hoose o’ my God, than to dwell 
i’ the tents o’ wickedness.’ David, ye’ll no bide 
hame.” 

For now they had service at the little church 
every Sabbath. That was partly Ailsa’s work. 
She had been so homesick for the house of her 
God, those long Sabbaths when the church was 
shut ! . “ I hanna eneuch spiritual strength to gae 
so lang wi’out the preachin’ o’ the Word,” she 
said to Mr. Gage. “ I’m like a bridge that is too 
weak to stan’ the strain o’ sae lang a span. An’ 
it’s no guid for the childer to hae sae mony idle 
Sabbath-days. The Bulk says, ‘ Those that be 
planted i’ the hoose o’ the Lord sal flourish i’ 
the coorts o’ our God.’ We maun hae preachin’ 
aftener.” 

“ We haven’t been able to afford it,” said Mr. 
Gage, “ and I don’t see how we can.” 

“ Why, mon, we can by gi’en mair ! What for 
no? Yester morn i’ the kirk we waur a-singin’, 

‘ Waur the whole realm o’ nature mine, 

That waur a present far too sma’.’ 

We are aye willin’ to sing that. The whole realm 
isna ours, an’ we canna gie it, an’ sae we talk 
large wi’out considerin’ hoo we can be liberal wi’ 
the wee part o’ the realm o’ nature the Lord has 
put unner our bans. Hech, mon ! I’m thinkin’ 


if the Lord were sae strict to mark iniquity as in 
the days o’ Ananias an’ Sapphira, we suld hear a 
voice speakin’ til us, full o’ dread, ‘ Ye hanna lied 
unto man, but unto God ;’ an’ there’s mony a Sab- 
bath-day, when, after a’ our preachin’ an’ prayin’ 
an’ singin’, there wad no be eneuch o’ us left 
alive to cast shadow on the kirk porch.” 

Brother Gage heard, and his face slowly grew 
purple : he was adding field to field ; and brother 
Jonsing down by the brook was lending yearly 
more and more out at interest; and Mr. Perry 
was boasting of great profits on mules; and 
Widow Munson, because she was a widow, got 
her religion free, and did not give even two 
mites ! 

Happily, brother Gage had grace enough to 
amend his ways. He headed a subscription list 
with the best donation he had ever made, and 
Ailsa gladly added her portion ; and when Mr. 
Gage had made the tour of the neighborhood, 
there was money for heating the church every 
Sabbath, and for securing preaching for the Sab- 
baths hitherto vacant. 

On one of these Sabbaths, so blissful to Ailsa 
because she could hear “ soun’ preachin’,” Da- 
vid, walking to the house of God in her com- 
pany, beheld Saul Beals chopping up for fuel his 
lane gate. David did not call his aunt’s attention 
to this direful spectacle ; he did not wish to hear 


MO 


Ragweed. 


what the Book said about patience exercised 
toward folks that cut up gates. He had heard 
Ailsa speak of a “ strong inward conviction,” 
and he felt a strong conviction now that he 
should thrash his old enemy, and he did not wish 
to discover that said conviction was not in the 
line of Ailsa’s spiritual monitions. 

When, after the few minutes’ intermission after 
morning service, the Sabbath-school gathered, Da- 
vid was not in his place. Ailsa could hardly fix 
her attention on the lesson of the day. “ Whaur 
is David ?” she kept asking herself 

David had adjourned to his former home. Not 
only was the gate demolished, but Saul Beals with 
great energy was reducing to kindling-wood the 
door of the smoke-house ! David felt a convic- 
tion, even an overpowering conviction, that the time 
to settle with Saul had come. He hung his coat, 
vest, cravat, and hat on the lane fence, and with a 
roar, “ You’ve got me to settle with for that there 
gate and door,” he rushed upon Saul as the Huns, 
with Attila at their head, rushed upon Europe. 
He put in fine work about Saul’s nose and ears ; 
he shook him as a cat shakes a mouse ; he count- 
ed out Saul’s ribs with lusty blows ; he prostrated 
Saul, and, sitting upon him, whooped a paean of 
victory. Saul defended himself: he clawed Da- 
vid’s face and tore his white ” store shirt ” in two ; 
he pulled David’s bushy hair until it stood up like 


Ailsa's Errand for her Lord. 1 1 1 

a thicket around his purple face. But in the end 
he admitted that “ he didn’t want to cut up no 
more gates and doors.” The battle was ended. 

David felt as if the fight had done him more 
good than all the preaching that he had ever 
heard. He rose up like a giant refreshed with 
new wine. Not to disgrace Aunt Ailsa, he se- 
cured his coat and vest and went home across 
the fields for repairs. “ Sis Gower would see to 
the shirt, and the least said the soonest mended.” 
But David was reckoning without a scratched 
face and a black eye. 

“ Whaur got ye they ill marks, David ?” asked 
Ailsa, when, returned home, she found her “ braw 
laddie ” seated “ by the ingle-side readin’ his buik.” 

“ Well, aunt,” said David, “ Sunday or no Sunday, 
I just had to settle Saul Beals’s hash for him. He 
chopped up my gate and my smoke-house door.” 

” Gif ye ha’ bin wi’ Saul Beals, I’m no surprised 
at ye’re luiks, laddie; them that boards wi’ cats 
maun expec’ scarts.” 

David looked rather humiliated. The hour of 
reaction struck. That fight appeared less glorious 
' retrospectively than when it was going hotly on, 
with whirling arms, set teeth, hot breath, tense 
sinews, heart thumping like a trip-hammer. 

Ailsa looked askance at this latest idol of her 
heart : 

“ Weel, laddie, syne ye did fecht Saul, I hope 


1 1 2 Ragweed. 

ye waur helped to thrash him weel ?” There spoke 
the Celt ! 

“You believe I did!” said David, reviving. “I 
pounded him into a cocked hat.” 

Ailsa and Bruce sat down to meditate what this 
flower of speech might mean. Presently Ailsa 
spoke : 

“ David, my sonsie lad, ye are o’er fond o’ fecht- 
in’. I wadna for onything hae ye a quarrelsome 
man.” 

David looked rather “ birkie ” than “ sonsie 
he shook his head. 

The schoolmaster laughed and quoted : 


And, being young, he changed himself, and grew 
To hate the sin that seemed so like his own.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


HOW A PRAIRIE SCHOONER SAILED. 

“Here and there a wild flower blushed; 

Now and then a bird-song gushed; 

Now and then, through rifts of shade, 

Stars shone out and sunbeams played.” 


IKE Sir Anthony Absolute, David Hume 



i — ^ could say, “ Hark ye, I am complaisance 
itself when I am not thwarted. No one is more 
easily led — when I have my own way.” 

This is such a very crooked and aggravating 
world that complaisance held on this tenure is 
exceedingly uncertain. Many were the days when 
Ailsa, lifting her calm blue eyes to the cloudy face 
of her “ braw callant,” would ask, “ What’s wrong 
wi’ ye the day, my fine laddie ?” or, “ What are 
ye glowerin’ at the noo, David, my mon ?” 

One late February afternoon, having heard loud 
words in the barn-yard, she questioned David in 
this way. 

“ I was clearin’ out Si Beals,” said David ; “ he 
came over here after corn-meal and after corn for 
his chickens. , I asked him if having house and 
wood wasn’t enough, besides all the things in the 
8 113 


Ragweed. 


1 14 

house, and said I’d see myself furder before I’d 
give him an ounce of anything.” 

” Hoot, laddie ! the Buik says, ‘ If thine en- 
emy hunger, feed him ; and if he thirst, give him 
drink.’” 

” He has the whole of my well up there — that’s 
drink plenty ; and if he’s hungry, it’s his own fault 
— he has a hundred acres of my land to raise his 
victuals on.” 

“ Ay ; but it’s an ill time o’ year to raise vict- 
uals the noo. Gif he has no laid by in store, 
he’ll be hungry. The Buik says, ‘ Give to him that 
asketh thee, and from him that would borrow 
of thee turn not thou away.’ ” 

” I’ve lent him house and land — isn’t that 
enough ?” 

“ The Buik says, ‘ If ony man take away thy 
coat, let him have thy cloak also.’ ” 

“Come, now. Aunt Ailsa, talk sense. If you 
go on like that, you might as well say I should 
leave the Bealses on the land as long as they want 
to stay, and not fire them out this April.” 

“ Weel, laddie,” said the canny Scot, “ Ian’ is 
different. The Buik sets store by the Ian’, an’ is 
aye particular that the son should have the Ian’ 
his faither left till him. It says that we mustna 
remove our faither’s landmarks, an’ it also says 
that if ony will no work, neither shall he eat. It 
is true that ane may go too far in helpin’ neer-do- 


Hmv a Prairie Schooner Sailed. 1 15 

weels, an’ ye hae no richt to house in a decent 
neighborhood idle bodies like they Bealses, wha 
keepit dogs to rin the sljeep. They maun go in 
April, the lawyer-body says, an’ no doot he is 
richt ; but the day, David, we wad no wish that 
the puir childer should be toom. Why, mon, the 
Bulk says, ‘ Gif ony see his brither ha’ need, and 
hath no compassion upo’ him, hoo dwelleth the 
love o’ God in him ?’ David, we maun do a good 
turn for the credit o’ our religion, sae I’ll hap up 
a poun’ o’ bacon an’ a sma’ sack o’ corn-meal, an’ 
bid Janet take it over to Mistress Beals, We’re 
no verra likely to meet i’ the nex’ warl’, laddie : 
let us dae them a’ the guid we may i’ this.” 

“ Oh, well, take your way. Aunt Ailsa,” said 
David, uneasily ; “ but I’m glad those Bealses are 
going, for, between you and the Book and Mr. 
Porter and Mr. Gage and the rest, I’m blest if I 
know how to treat them. But I can just tell you 
the neighbors mean to freeze ’em out.” 

Yes, that was what the neighbors meant to 
do. The neighbors had talked it over about 
firesides and after church and on the way home 
from town meeting, and they had concluded that 
the borrowing of “ the Bealses ” must come to an 
end, and that, if they were not willing to earn 
bread, they might lack bread. So, when the 
Beals juniors went on quests, they were not cor- 
dially received. 


Ii6 Ragweed. 

“ Wants a bucket of milk, does yer mar, ’cause 
your cow’s dry ?” said Widow Munson, her hands 
on her hips and surveying Peggy Beals, “Your 
cow’s always dry. What else can you expect 
when she’s not half milked ? And, first and last, 
she’s not your cow at all, but David Hume’s, and 
he ought to take her to his own place, where she’d 
be given proper care. No, I hain’t got no milk 
an’ no nothin’, and you needn’t mind coming 
’round here again.” 

Whereupon Peggy Beals withdrew to the road, 
ran her tongue out at the widow Munson, and 
threw a clod of mud at the window which Della 
Munson had elaborately cleaned. 

“ Potatoes ?” said Mr. Gage to Si Beals. “ Your 
par wants potatoes ? Why didn’t he plant ’em ? 
He had field enough. I told him if he wanted 
anything he could have it for work, and he could 
come here and help put up wire fence ; but I 
haven’t seen him ’round when there was work to 
be done.” 

“ A loaf of light bread and a pound of butter, 
eh ?” said Mrs. Gage to Deb. “ Well, no, I can’t. 
We’ve come to the conclusion that you folks have 
lived off this neighborhood jist about as long as 
is healthy. We’ll pay for work, but we’ve shut 
down on giving or lending.” — “ I declare,” she 
said later to “ Mis’ Jonsing down by the brook,” 
“ it made me feel powerful mean to refuse the mat- 


Holu a Prairie Schooner Sailed. 117 

ter of a loaf and some butter ; but Gage and the rest 
say it is the only way to get rid of ’em, and they 
are a ruin to the neighborhood ; and when I think 
of my melon-patch and my chicken-roost, then I 
do get strength to be firm. But I never thought 
I’d come to refusing food, whatever.” 

Still, when that human ferret Si, who was 
known to be the spoiler of melon-patches and 
hen-roosts, was seized with pneumonia, Mrs. Gage, 
armed with flannel and flaxseed, liniment and lo- 
tions, mustard and medicine, spent the night at 
the Bealses, and while Saul Beals snored in his bed 
and Deb smoked her pipe by the fire, Mrs. Gage 
nursed and tended the young rascal as if he had 
been her own boy. Mrs, Munson made Si 
chicken-soup and toast; “ Mis’ Jonsing down by 
the brook ” sent for the doctor for him and paid 
for his medicine ; and Aunt Ailsa sat up all night 
with him, and gave him two pairs of woolen stock- 
ings of her own knitting. However, it was evi- 
dent that these tokens of good will in time of 
sickness were not to be continued in health, and 
the hegira of “ the Bealses ” drew near. 

The schoolmaster made a last effort in behalf 
of Pope and Turk. He spent an hour in exhort- 
ing and entreating that Pope might be sent to the 
institution for mutes, and Turk put in the care of 
Dr. Garth. He endeavored to enlist the selfish- 
ness of the parents in this behalf. 


ii8 


Ragweed. 


“ You’re losin’ of your time, mister, talkin’ to 
we’uns,” said Deb. “ Nobody can’t meddle with 
our children. We’uns has a right to them, if we 
hain’t got nothin’ else. There ain’t no sense what- 
ever in tryin’ to do for Pope. When he was born, 
a campin’ fambly nigh us said as the pope was the 
biggest man in all creation, so we named the young 
un’ Pope, an’ he went an’ turned out a dummy ! 
Ketch me ever takin’ any pains to do things for a 
young un’ agin !” 

Beneath and beyond all this talk, the facts were 
that Pope was the only hard worker in the family, 
and his earnings represented the cash income of 
the house of Beals. Deb had found out that when 
poor Turk went to people to ask for things — food, 
clothing, or money — pity for her deformity and a 
desire to get her out of sight caused them to give 
to her what they would deny to any other Beals. 
In fact. Pope and Turk were useful, and therefore 
she kept them. The schoolmaster understood 
this ; probably it was clear also to Turk, who, 
from behind a door, listened to the interview. 

When, after his bootless errand, the master was 
half-way back to Mistress Crathie’s, Turk overtook 
him. Keeping just behind his elbow — for Turk 
always preferred not to be seen — she clacked, “ She 
won’t let us stop, sir ? Have we got to go on this 
way all our lives ? I can’t ! I can’t !” 

“ This vagrant life is a disgrace,” said the mas- 


Hozv a Prairie Schooner Sailed. 1 19 

ter. “Your parents should not be permitted to 
bring up children as trampers; they should not 
be permitted to be trampers themselves. The 
State ought to interfere, but it does not. You 
and Pope should grow up to be decent citizens. 
You should not be dragged into a life of idleness 
and crime. Your parents are going far beyond 
their rights. I do not know what to tell you to 
do, but I know what I would do in your case.” 

“We’ll have to go,” said Turk. “If we tried 
to stay behind, they’d take the place. You never 
saw ’em on a tear, did you? I have. Chains 
couldn’t hold ’em.” 

“ I can’t help you any about it, Turk — I’ve tried 
my best. You must look out for yourself and 
Pope as well as you can, and don’t forget that 
over in the town is the place for you both.” 

It was Friday evening. The schoolmaster said 
“ Good-bye,” and passed on. Turk, on the edge 
of the brown newly-plowed field, stood looking 
after him. To her he represented respectability, 
knowledge, the decencies of life. But she should 
see him no more. The note of departure had 
sounded. This day was the first of April, and 
Turk knew that on the Sabbath their move would 
begin. 

Pope, during the winter, had dressed hoop-poles, 
helped to put up wire fencing, woven husk mats, 
and cut ties^ and all the money he earned went 


120 


Ragivccd. 


into the hands of his parents. The dumb boy 
was in rags and barefooted; Turk would have 
been in a like predicament had not Mrs. Garth sent 
her shoes, dress, and a sunbonnet. The Bealses 
owned a one-eyed white mare, bony and old ; 
with Pope’s wages they bought a vicious little 
black mule, sold cheap by Widow Munson. Saul 
took the cow and her calf to the river on Satur- 
day night, and exchanged them for an old brown 
mule. As for the three-wheeled wagon, he made 
that all right after dark by exchanging his one 
front wheel for a pair of front wheels of a wagon 
left by Mr. Gage in his wheat-field. They fitted 
the Beals wagon to a nicety. Deb had patched 
the old canvas cover, and inside the wagon they 
stowed whatever they could carry ; beneath it they 
hung pots, pails, and pans. They were ready for 
departure, and they were not sorry. 

Whenever spring returned, wreathing the run- 
nels by the wayside with new frills of white-clover 
leaves and tiny white chickweed stars ; when dan- 
delions opened in sunny nooks, and the branches 
of the trees were covered as with gray, bronze, 
green, or purple mist of young leaf-buds ; when 
the maples and the lindens were in flower, and 
the jays with joyful chatter chased the bluebirds 
along the fence-rails ; when the robins walked 
stately in their flame-red gorgets across the grass, 
and blackbirds twirred and whistled, and turned 


Holu a Prairie Schooner Sailed. 121 

their violet, amethyst, and blue necks to the sun ; 
when, as says Virgil, “ The happy earth wooed to 
her bosom the warm south winds,” — then a terri- 
ble nostalgia for the roads seized upon these wan- 
dering Bealses. Not that they were in harmony 
with nature, or loved her, or noticed her glories 
more than the clods or boulders by the way; 
but in their savage souls that instinct of migration 
which lies dormant in us all awoke more readily ; 
it was less chained by possessions, less rebuked 
by pride, less atrophied by the pressure of cir- 
cumstances. 

While they lived on the Hume farm the vis inertia 
so largely present in them had combated in its way 
the migrative impulse. Life had been easy when 
all its expenses were contributed by the neighbor- 
hood; and the trouble about wheels and mules 
j had been great. But now the genius of Saul Beals 
had secured a wagon and a team ; Si made a last 
visit to Mr. Gage’s hen-roost; and Deb, in the 
gloaming of the morning, milked Widow Munson’s 
cow ; and as they creaked down the road “ Mis’ 
Jonsing down by the brook” was less one little 
black porker that never squealed again. 

Away! away! away! The east is pink and 
saffron with the coming dawn ; the dew hangs in 
beads on the grass ; a long, winding, twisted fold 
of soft mist shows where the brook takes its course 
to the river. The roads are good, for the spring 


122 


Ragweed. 


came early, the rains ceased in the first week of 
March, and sun and wind have drunk up the moist- 
ure from the traveled ways. 

Saul behind the wagon rode the extra mule ; 
Pope trudged along the roadside ; Si drove, and his 
mother 'sat beside him, looking out from under the 
hood of the wagon with vacuous eyes. Here and 
there the frowzy heads of children appeared among 
the lading of the wagon, and Turk sat in the back 
end, looking pitifully at Pope, and with a rag of 
apron pulled over the bridge of her nose. 

Slowly on, on, the prairie schooner wound its 
way, Saul did not think that Mr. Gage would 
consider his wagon-wheels, or “ Mis’ Jonsing down 
by the brook ” her porker, worth coming after ; be- 
sides, they would not know which way to come, 
and it would be Monday before the matter of the 
wheels would be manifest. When Saul thought 
of that transaction about the cow and the calf, 
and the mule which he rode, he tipped back his 
head, screwed his eyes shut, opened wide his 
mouth, and slapped his knee. His attitude was 
that of a dog baying the moon, but he made no 
sound. 

The abandoned Hume house stood open to the 
elements. Saul, departing, had kicked the front 
door from its last hinge, and Deb had driven 
her elbow through the only whole pane of glass. 
Straw, chips, dirt, broken crockery, rusted tins. 


Hcnv a Prairie. Schooner Sailed. 


123 


wrecked chairs and tables, wads of greasy paper, — 
these were touched by the early sunlight and stirred 
by the soft south-west wind. Overthrown fences, 
broken gates, dying trees, neglected fields, rubbish, 
dismantled out-building, marked the tarrying and 
passing of these locusts of the West. 

In a log shelter propped by two fence-rails from 
falling, high up in a corner, blinked and queru- 
lously complained a gaunt and ruffled rooster. 
No kin he to that famous yellow-legged Brahma ; 
he was a common barn-yard fowl of hapless des- 
tinies ; much chasing and little corn had been his 
portion ; he had foraged for himself with small 
results, and the previous night Deb had caught 
him and two hens. The rooster had escaped. Deb 
had raced after him, aided by Peggy and the lean Si. 
Five several times hands had been laid upon him, 
and each time he had left a tail-feather in the grasp 
of his pursuer. Now,.shorn of his natural glories, 
only two long curved feathers shedding metallic 
lustre left, he moped in the gloomiest corner, too 
depressed to salute the sun or to send a challenge 
to neighboring cocks, none of which would stoop 
to his acquaintance. In a ground corner of this 
same shed lay a heap of rags. The rooster eyed 
the rags, as if considering whether to stir and peck 
them for a breakfast. 

“ It looks,” said David Hume, as, with Aunt 
Ailsa on his arm, and followed by a tail, like a 


124 


Ragweed. 


proper chief of a clan, he went to church — “ it 
looks as if the Bealses had gone. So to-morrow 
Mose Barr and I will get at that place, and plow 
for corn and buckwheat and turnips.” 

“ Whist, laddie !” said Aunt Ailsa ; “ ‘ Remem- 
ber the Sabbath day to keep it holy.’ The Bulk 
says we are no to talk our ain wards, no to think 
our ain thochts, but to aye withdraw our feet 
fro’ the Sabbath, as Moses, ye ken, took the shoon 
fro’ off his feet, syne the place where he standit 
was holy groun’. Dinna forget, laddie, that the 
Buik says, ‘ Them that honor me I will honor.’ 
Besides, laddie, dinna ye ken what the apostle 
James writes : ‘ Go to now, ye that say. To-day 
or to-morrow we will go into such a city, and 
continue there a year, and buy and sell, and get 
gain : whereas ye know not what shall be on the 
morrow. For what is your life? It is even a 
vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and then 
vanisheth away. For that ye ought to say. If 
the Lord will, we shall live, and do this, or that.’ ” 

“ Why, does God care for — for ploughing and 
planting, aunt?” 

“ What should we do if he didna care ?” said 
Ailsa ; then she added, “ Oh, my mon, it maks 
me verra happy to ken that God does care for a’ 
that I am an’ a’ that I dae !” 

The service and the Sabbath-school were over. 
The congregation went home to dinner, and, when 


How a Prairie Schooner Sailed. 125 

all was in order in the afternoon, Sis Gower and her 
brood came across the way, and Aunt Ailsa read 
to them from “ the Buik ” and told of Sabbaths in 
Scotland. Miss and the baby played after a while 
by the front door. Bruce finally wandered out of 
the back door. 

The idea of that other house, empty of the 
Bealses, drew Bruce with some fascination. How 
did an empty house look? Suppose he should 
go there and peep in ! How odd to walk about 
there and not hear the loud voices of the 
Bealses ! Surely the house would not look 
the same ! Bruce set off across the fields to 
explore. 

Meantime, the cock, drawn into a ball, sat on 
his high perch, despondent, and the heap of rags 
lay in the corner. At last the cock fell asleep, 
and by and by he dreamed. He dreamed of a 
fine barn-yard full of clean yellow straw, such as 
Mr. Gage kept, and he dreamed that no one chased 
him, but daily he headed a long train of fowls 
marching about in the sun. He dreamed that 
there was a pan of clean water with pebbles in 
the bottom ; he dreamed that there was a heap 
of clean sand, and that a girl threw out plente- 
ous corn, oats, and crumbs every day. So great 
was the joy of the forsaken cock in his dreams 
that he erected his head and tail, spread out his 
wings, threw forward his parti-colored breast, and 


1 26 Ragweed. 

gave a mighty crow. At this . crow the heap of 
rags sat up, rose to its feet, showed a very pale 
and dirty face, and broke into a dreadful wail. 
The Bealses had left the baby ! 

The wild wailing reached the ears of Bruce as 
his short legs climbed the nearest fence. Bruce 
had never heard of goblins, but he had heard 
babies cry, and he went straight toward the sound. 
Baby as he was himself, Bruce could recognize 
the forlornness of this attenuated, starving, neg- 
lected, deserted infant. He took it by the hand, 
led it out into the sun, and said, “ Come to Ailsa 
and get a biscuit.” Then, realizing that he could 
not get this baby over the fences, he led it to the 
road. That way was much longer, and this jet- 
sam of the prairie schooner was only fifteen 
months old. Bruce dragged it, coaxed it, took it 
up and carried it, and encouraged it by remarks 
about “ bread and tea.” The baby itself seenied 
to realize the needs-be, and staggered along val- 
iantly, while the humiliated and lonesome rooster 
followed them afar off. Finally “ the stage-house ” 
was reached. Bruce marched his protege in. 

“ Ailsa,” he said gravely, regarding with un- 
favorable gaze the snub nose, dirty face, and sore 
eyes of the derelict, “ he isn’t the Holy Boy — but 
he's a boy!' 

“Mercy!” said Janet; “the Bealses have left 
the baby!” 


Hoiv a Prairie Schooner Sailed. 127 

Ailsa spoke with emphasis : “You poor wee 
bairn ! ever syne I first set een on ye, I’ve wanted 
to gie ye a guid washin’, an’ I’ll dae it the noo ! 
It is dirt maks ye so peaked an’ sore-eyed ; an’, 
providentially, there is a pot fu’ o’ hot water on 
the stove.” 

“ Have they left him on our hands ?” said David, 
indignantly. 

“ Hoot, mon !” said Ailsa ; “ does no the Bulk 
say, ‘ Whoso receiveth one such little child, re- 
ceiveth me ’ ? ‘ To do good and communicate for- 
get not ;’ ‘ I was a stranger and ye took me in.’ ” 

Thus quoting, Ailsa was making ready a tub 
of warm suds. Then she whisked off the two dirty 
garments which draped the deserted baby, and, 
taking off the stove-lid, dropped them into the 
fire. Into the tub went the baby, and Ailsa’s 
sharp scissors sheared its hair close to its head. 
Having now a fair field for soap and water, she 
went vigorously to work. 

“ I smell an awfu’ smell o’ gin,” she remarked. 

“ Of course,” said David ; “ Deb Beals wanted 
the baby to sleep until they were well out of the 
way, and she dosed it with gin. The baby’s been 
drunk, and it’s not the first time.” 

“ Preserve us a’ !” groaned Ailsa. — “ Janet, my 
lass, get a cup o’ milk, and warm it and sweeten 
it. When the bit bairn is clean it shall be fed.” 

Sis Gower had disappeared. She returned with 


12$ Ragweed. 

her hands full. “ Here are some clothes for the 
baby,” she said. 

“ You can’t afford to give things, Sis,” cried 
David. 

“ Whist, mon ! She canna afford to live wi’out 
gieing,” said Ailsa. 

“ Aunt,” cried David, suddenly, “ what has be- 
come of my cow ? That was my cow up there, 
and they’ve taken her off.” 

“ Well, David, bide patient ; it is guid they 
hanna you an’ your soul, as well as the coo,” said 
Ailsa, quietly. 


CHAPTER IX. 


HOW BLEST A THING IS WORK! 

“ So work the honey-bees : 

Creatures that, by a rule in nature, teach 
The art of order to a peopled kingdom — 

The singing masons building roof of gold, 

The civil citizens kneading up honey.” 

“ T 7EEL, weel !” said Mistress Crathie, stand- 
V V ing amid the desolation of the abandoned 
house ; “ it luiks, sure enough, as if a’ the plagues 
o’ Egypt had been poured out here. The weeked 
are the children o’ the destroying one, an’ they 
are a’ in their way destroyers. God is the gran’ 
Maker, an’ his children are up-builders. It is a 
guid providence they washel oons are oot o’ the 
neighborhood ! An’ yet, Mr. Porter, I am wae 
for them that human souls an’ bodies must thole 
sic a rede. Puir waefu’ beings !” 

“ It is their own fault,” said Mr. Porter ; “ they 
have had opportunities and examples and instruc- 
tion. They had their chance here, and what did 
they care for it?” 

“ Weel, wha wull to Cupar maun to Cupar,” 
said Ailsa, “ I am lost in admiration o’ the guid- 
9 129 


130 


Ragzuccd. 


ness o’ God, who kept my childer sae free fro’ taint 
when they foregathered wi’ sic bodies for nigh twa 
years !” 

“The Humes are silent and reserved, and keep 
to themselves. They are clannish, like the rest 
of you Scots, and that has saved them.’’ 

Mr, Porter stood on the porch, looking at the 
desolation that was left them. In the autumn and 
winter the Hume property had been well looked 
after — trees planted, fences re-made, the fields 
plowed, grass sowed, the orchards trimmed, and 
new trees set out. The improvements had come 
down to the last ten acres, upon which the house 
stood. That had been left to the Beals family — 
and destruction. The family had resented the 
advance of civilization and industry upon them, 
and had avenged themselves by making the dwell- 
ing and its surroundings a singular picture of 
ruin. Mr. Porter spoke briskly; 

“ David and Mistress Crathie ! We’ll lay a mort- 
gage on this place for two years, and so get enough 
to complete our repairs and buy more sheep. 
That old well must be pulled dowm and replaced by 
a chain-pump. All those tumble-down out-build- 
ings must come down, and we’ll use what we can 
of them on the new barn, sheep-sheds, and wood- 
house. We’ll put a picket fence about this door- 
yard, sow the yard with grass-seed, and set out 
some bushes and some maples. That lane must 


Hoiv Blest a Thing is Work! 13 1 

have a good gravel road, and the house must be 
done up so that your farmer can live in it. David 
and Uncle Mose Barr cannot take care of one hun- 
dred and sixty acres and what sheep you will be 
able to keep, and I have my eye on a nice young 
farmer, just married, who will suit you exactly. 
As for the mortgage, those two corn-fields have to 
pay it in two years. I’ll have Bilman and his lum- 
ber out here day after to-morrow.” 

Ailsa stood on the porch listening, and as Mr. 
Porter spoke she looked across the lovely land, 
and in imagination saw it “ as the garden of the 
Lord, as the land of Egypt as thou comest unto 
Zoar.” Her children, as she called them, would 
have a goodly heritage. 

“ David,” said Mr. Porter, “ will have to work 
manfully if he is to be master here, for, unless 
there is a master’s eye and hand, work lags.” 

“ David will buckle to,” said Ailsa ; “ he likes 
work, an’ he likes to tak the lead.” 

Winters always seem long, and the longest 
summers short. That summer fled by as if it had 
worn the talaria of Mercury. David found, as Vir- 
gil says, that the “ ceaseless labor of the farmer 
moves in a mighty round,” while “ the year follows 
in its own footsteps.” But David liked these 
duties of the husbandman and the shepherd. 
All that the son of Mantua had sung of the cares 
of the vine, David could have rehearsed as the 


132 Ragweed. 

labors of the corn, the best gold of the Western 
world. 

It was a summer without a history, except what 
was written in the ripening harvests, the increas- 
ing flocks, the growth of trees and vines, and the 
general air of well-being that began to hover 
about the two long-neglected farms of the late 
David Hume, These farms seemed to Ailsa in' 
some way as the monument of the lover of her 
youth, and when she saw “ the pastures clothed 
with flocks, the valleys also covered over with 
corn,” — then she felt as if, in some way, David 
Hume must know this, and be more glad amid 
the gladness of paradise, 

Ailsa was no neglectful farm-mistress ; not a 
week passed but her active figure might be seen 
going over all the fields, noticing every break in 
a fence, every neglected implement. Daily she 
went down to see the sheep as they came up from 
the meadows ; her eye, trained to sheep-tendance 
in the old home, marked every missing lamb or 
thin or stumbling ewe, 

“ We’ll hae a new graft set here come spring 
“a new tree planted yonder;” “you’ll put in a 
ditch wi’ drain-pipe yonder, David, my mon ;” “ we 
can as weel raise a hunner hens as fifty ;” “ Janet, 
ye sail be our hen-wife, an’ gif ye do weel by the 
feathered things, it will be a penny in yer ain 
pocket.” 


Hoiv Blest a Thing is Work! 


133 


Meanwhile, Janet and Bruce were sent to school, 
and Pam, Lola, and “ Miss ” Gower went with 
them, while the Gower baby and the Beals baby 
played and quarreled together on the road-side or 
in the door-yards. 

The abandoned Beals baby had been named 
Nathan. His skin was now clean, his legs 
straight ; he was fat, and his eyes were cured, but 
he had the small eyes and ferret-like face of Saul 
Beals and Si. Ailsa would look at him and say 
with cornplacency, “ Ye can see plain he is no a 
Hume — he is sae ill-faured. But, please God, he 
shall no ken that he was e’er a Beals. Nathan 
Barber I hae named him, an’ his onnatural par- 
ents canna get him back gif they come after him, 
for I went to the county coort aboot it, an’ had the 
bairn bound over to rne, an’ David Hume after 
me, till he’s ane-an’-twenty. I wasna meanin’ to 
throw away a’ my cares o’ him. I will juist bring 
him oop on porridge an’ milk, an’ on the Bulk an’ 
the Shorter Catechism, an’ if that winna mak a 
mon o’ him, there’s naething will. There’s na 
fence better than the Shorter Catechism to keep 
oot mischief It has — wi’ the Buik — made Scotch- 
men strong. I canna expec’ yon puir bit bairn, 
o’ Beals flesh, to grow like a Scot. That wad be 
askin’ o’er much o’ the Lord. Ye ken Abraham 
did not pray that Sodom suld be saved gif less 
than ten righteous , were in it; he was morally 


134 


Ragivccd. 


conditioned. An’ I’m that morally conditioned I 
canna demand that even the Buik an’ the cate- 
chism may mak a true, strong Scotch character 
oot o’ a Beals ; bluid will tell. But I can expec’ 
him to grow into a decent mon, an’ no vagabond. 
I ne’er could bide a vagabond, an’ the Lord 
canna !” 

Pursuant to these ideas, Ailsa washed and 
rubbed her Beals baby, put him early to bed, fed 
him wholesomely, set him in the corner if he fell 
into a passion, and, so soon as he could toddle 
from the door to the wood-pile, gave him a little 
basket and had him bring in chips for the fire 
three times a day. For Ailsa was a' thrifty house- 
wife, never idle, and tolerating no idleness. 

Ailsa was also the model of the neighborhood 
in economy. The prodigality of her Western 
neighbors in food-stuff's horrified her. All but 
Sis Gower threw away more than they used. 

“ Sic wastry must be verra unpleasin’ to the 
guid Lord,” said Ailsa. “ Dinna ye ken how our 
Master himsel’ had a’ the fragments picked oop, 
though he could create plenty wi’ only one word ?” 
Nothing was wasted in Ailsa’s plain, abundant 
housekeeping ; there was enough, but none to 
throw away. For Sabbaths and guests and festal 
occasions she had store of her Scotch dainties — 
shortbread and scones and currant bun. She 
made her bannocks and her “ait cakes,” and 


How Blest a Thing is Work! 


135 


called her little cheeses kebbucks, and her table, 
her dress, and her speech kept in the hurrying 
new world the fashion of the old-world ways. 

Again a winter passed and a summer came. 
The money to pay off the mortgage was ready, 
and Ailsa was glad of it. She did not take kindly 
to usury. “ The Buik,” she said, “ did no favor it, 
an’ a’ borrowin’ at interest seemed usury-like.” 

“Tuts!” said Mr. Porter; “it is nothing of the 
kind. That’s the way we run all our business in 
these days.” 

“ Weel, weel !” said Ailsa ; “ I’m glad to pay 
oop, and to hae money to put in the bank, to lie 
by in store for our ainsels. The guid mon in the 
psalm ‘ is he that putteth not out his money to 
usury, nor taketh a reward against the inno- 
cent.’ ” 

Mr. Porter laughed. Ailsa was at once a 
shrewd business woman and thoroughly child- 
like and unworldly. 

Just at present Ailsa was busy making a neat 
outfit for Janet. In September Janet was going 
away. Mrs. Garth had invited her to live at her 
house and attend the high school ; when she had 
graduated there, she was to go to the normal 
school and fit herself to be a teacher. Janet had 
been faithful with her fowl-yard, and many dozens 
of eggs, many young chickens, many turkies, had 
gone to market, and she had a grand holiday in 


136 


Ragivced. 


June, when David took her and Sis Gower over 
to the town, and Janet bought muslin and ging- 
ham and flannel and winter dress-goods. 

“ It is so nice,” said Sis, cheerfully, as they 
rode home in the moonlight, ” to be able to buy 
things !” 

Sis had bought a few yards of gingham and 
some denim for her brood, but she had enjoyed 
looking on at Janet’s bargains. 

David turned to her : “ Never you mind. Sis ; 
the time will come when you too can go to town 
and buy what you like for yourself.” 

” After the children are grown up and father 
gets home,” said Sis, sedately. 

David had visited a five-cent counter and bought 
for the Gower baby and for Master Nathan Barber 
each a tin horn. For Bruce he had gone to the 
book-store and bought a story-book. Bruce 
adored a book, and always wanted to do what- 
ever was in it. This especial book told of an indus- 
trious and helpful boy. 

Bruce knew that he himself had always been 
very incompetent to help. Nathan Barber, at two 
and a half, picked up more chips than did Bruce 
at seven. Bruce meant to turn over a new leaf. 

It was vacation, and Bruce wandered out 
dreamily to look for employment. He went into 
the barn, and there was a brown hen in great ex- 
citement : in her long-brooded nest the eggs were 


Haiv Blest a Thing is Work! 


137 


stirring, and from some a little beak, from others 
a yellow head and a pair of round black eyes 
looked out upon the world, so different from those 
translucent walls of silk and pearl. This was a 
joyful occasion. Bruce went down on his knees, 
compassionating the tender things that must peck 
their way into life so hardly. In gentle hands he 
took egg after egg, unmindful of the protesting 
hen-mother, and safely and neatly he broke the 
shells open and let each struggling little chick out 
into the wide world. 

“ You lazy hen !” said Bruce ; “ you ought to 
have done that yourself, and not just stand looking 
on and scolding folks !” 

Then he went slowly to the house, and said to 
Janet, in his deep, deliberate way, “ I helped, 
Janet. I helped you and the hen. The hen 
didn’t thank me any, but T s’pose you will. I 
helped you get money for books and dres.ses. I 
helped hatch a whole nestful of poor, tired little 
chickens.” ' 

Janet rushed to the barn, and came back cry- 
ing : every little yellow fluffy chick lay dead ; the 
bereaved hen-mother was raising a terrible din. 

“ Why ?” demanded Bruce. ” Why ? Why 
wasn’t it right to help ? Why do they have to 
do it for themselves ?” 

“ It’s so always, you little goose,” said David, 
who had just come in for dinner. “ I remember 


138 


Ragivccd. 


two or three times I have found a moth or a but- 
terfly wrestling to come out of its little woolly 
roll, and I have helped it just as easily as I could, 
and all I got for my trouble was that the poor 
things had twisted wings and could not fly. They 
have to be left to themselves.” 

“ Why ? why ?” insisted Bruce. 

” Bairn,” said Ailsa, “ we canna tell, but it is a 
parable o’ the soul strugglin’ into life. The guid 
Lord aye leaves us some’at for our ainsels to do. 
The Bulk says, ‘ Work out your ain salvation wi’ 
fear an’ tremblin’, for it is God that worketh in 
you ;’ an’ it says also, ‘ The kingdom o’ heaven 
suffereth violence, an’ the violent take it by force.’ 
The soul has to bestir itsel’ to cast off the clogs 
o’ this sinfu’ warl’ an’ enter into glory.” 

” Don’t touch my chickens again, Bruce,” said 
the inconsolable Janet ; “ don’t go near them.” 

“ But I want to help,” said Bruce. 

“ It’s well you do,” said David, “ for you’ve 
always been a looker-on.” So he found various 
little tasks for his small brother. 

After a hard day’s work David was lying on 
his back on the porch floor to rest himself when 
Bruce lamented, “ I did want to do something to 
help, but I haven’t to-day. David, what can I do ?” 

“ I’ll tell you,” said David ; “ you can weed the 
bed. — Janet, show him the bed where I have the 
seed-onions, and show him which are weeds,” 


139 


How Blest a Thing is Work! 

Bruce went away, and after a little he was back, 
saying joyfully, “ I’ve done it, David ! I’ve done 
it all ! It’s so clean !” 

“ You’ve got through mighty quick,” said Da- 
vid. “ I don’t believe it is half done.” 

“ Yes it is. It is as clean as this porch floor.” 

David leaped up and went to the garden. Not 
a green spire was left in the long, narrow onion- 
bed. It was clean indeed. He returned to the 
expectant Bruce: 

“ Don’t you ever dare to go near that garden 
again, nor touch a thing in it ! There is not an 
onion left !” and he lay down as before. 

Bruce, thus in disgrace, felt that the circle of 
his usefulness was rapidly closing in about him. 
His ambition and his Scotch tenacity were roused. 
Ailsa no doubt would be more grateful for help. 
He would look about for some way of aiding 
her. 

In a few days’ time Bruce thought that he had 
found his opportunity. Ailsa and David had gone 
to an executor’s sale of stock and farm-implements. 
Bruce noticed the weeds in the lot next the house, 
and the prairie-grass, dry from a long drought. 
He had heard Aunt Ailsa complaining of these 
weeds, and saying that they must be cut down, 
as the seeds were infesting her front yard. Biuce 
could not mow, but he had read that if the weeds 
were well burned they would not return. Oh, 


140 


Ragivecd. 


happy thought ! He ran for a match, threw open 
the gate, and, happily, left it open. The dry grass 
caught like tinder, a dull cloud of smoke rolled 
upward, and before the gentle breeze a crimson 
billow of fire swept toward the barns and sheep- 
folds. Janet, sewing on the door-step, gave a 
shriek and came dashing up with two buckets 
of water; Sis Gower echoed the shriek and ran 
from her home with water, followed by Pam, also 
carrying a pail of water. Bruce, speechless, fled 
to the pump and began to turn the handle with 
all his might. Two men were passing in a wagon ; 
they sprang to the service : one, carrying two 
empty canvas wheat-sacks, beat the fire with them ; 
the other seized David’s scythe and began to mow 
a broad swath between the barn and the fire. The 
men cutting ties in the bit of woodland near by 
hurried up with branches of pine and cedar to beat 
back the flames, while Sis Gower sent Pam for her 
own scythe. There was a hard half-hour’s fight ; 
then there was to be seen a scorched fence, some 
exceedingly red, hot, tired, smoke-blackened peo- 
ple, a broad band of burnt stubble, and a little boy 
lying on his face with his head and shoulders thrust 
under the porch, that none might see how terribly 
he was crying. 

“ He pretty nearly burnt the whole place up,” 
protested the wrathful Janet to David and Ailsa. 
“ We had every tie-man in the township here fight- 


Hoiv Blest a Thing is Work/ 141 

ing fire ; if we hadn’t, you’d have found nothing 
but cinders here when you got home.” 

“ ‘ Except the Lord keep the city, the watch- 
man waketh but in vain,’ ” said Ailsa, ‘“Under 
his wings shalt thou trust.’ ‘ When thou walkest 
through the fire, thou shalt not be burnt ; neither 
shall flame kindle upon thee.’ ” 

” I wanted to help !” burst forth Bruce. 

“You — wanted — to — help,” said David, slowly, 
eying him sternly. “ You do more harm helping 
than any boy I ever saw ! What were you made 
for, Bruce, anyway? Over at the town, yonder, 
there are a lunatic asylum and a college ; which of 
’em would fit you best I don’t know, but it seems 
if you belong in one of them.” 

“ Try the college soon’s I’m big enough !” cried 
Bruce, eagerly. 

“ I reckon ; you’ll never have sense enough to 
farm,” said David. 

Bruce might have been made for philosophy, 
but, decidedly, not for affairs. 

Meanwhile, Sis Gower had sprained her hand 
fighting the fire, and Sis Gower’s baby had been 
running about in the hot sun, and had then 
tumbled into a tub that Bruce had filled with 
water ; and, Bruce having pulled her out and left 
her to dry in the wind, the youngster took a chill 
and proceeded to have a fever. This was the 
first sickness that had come among Sis Gower’s 


1 42 Ragivccd. 

brood, and the child was near to death. There 
was great anxiety. 

“ Miss’ Jonsing down by the brook ” came over 
to see the baby, and then concluded to stay all 
day, and then all night; by that time the little 
suffering child had so wound itself about her 
heart that she avowed her intention of “ seeing 
the thing through.” That meant two weeks of 
constant nursing and kindliest care, when ” Mis’ 
Jonsing down by the brook ” scarcely saw her 
domicile by the brook, and when Sis Gower’s 
faithful heart, though full of gratitude to the neigh- 
bor, ached a little at seeing her baby prefer that 
neighbor to herself, and find more commodious 
re.sting on “ Mis’ Jonsing’s ” broad bosom than in 
her own thin, tired arms. But the baby was get- 
ting well. The fever had spent its fury, and the 
little one could give a wan smile into loving faces. 

Never had the prosperous life of “ Mis’ Jonsing ” 
looked to her so bereft, never had her plump arms 
felt so empty, never had her generous heart been 
so lonely, as when she looked at the little pitiful 
baby and reflected that it belonged to Sis Gower, 
and not to herself Oh, how she wanted that baby ! 
She and Mr. Johnson had long ago ceased, by 
common consent, to express their disappointment 
in their childless home. Not one child over there 
in the commodious dwelling, and here, in Sis Gow- 
er’s, were six, including poor Sis! Mrs, Johnson 


How Blest a Thing is Work! 143 

wondered why, when Mrs. Gower was dying, she 
had not asked her for the baby. Surely she had 
never realized what a darling it was ! Would Sis 
give it away? Would she give it now, just when 
the little one was doubly dear from its close 
brush with death? How should she ask her 
for it? 

“ Mis’ Jonsing,” said Sis, “ I’m going to stop 
calling the baby different names to try on. I’ve 
tried Olive and Laura and Amanda, and ever so 
many more. I’m going to name her ‘ Jane Jon- 
sing,’ after you. I’d have named her after mother, 
only mother said she never wanted a child named 
for her — she had been so unfortunate and so 
unhappy — but you have been always happy and 
fortunate, and I’ll name her for you, sure.” 

“ I’ve had a great trouble and sorrow. Sis,” said 
Mrs. Johnson. 

“ Dear me ! I’m sorry to hear it,” said the 
sympathetic Sis. 

“ It’s a trouble you might help me out of, part- 
ly, Sis.” 

“ Could I ? How ? I’d do anything for you, 
Mis’ Jonsing !” 

“ My trouble is. I’m lonesome for a child. I’ve 
wanted a child of my own so much, and one never 
came. My home is so empty ! If you’d not 
only name the baby after me. Sis, but give her 
to me, I’d be such a good mother to her !” 


144 


Ragiueed. 


“ I know you’d be good,” said Sis, white and red 
by turns, “ but how could I give her away?” 

“ Think how much better off she’d be ! I could 
do so much more for her. Sis! You have three 
besides to take care of, and Sikey can’t help you 
much. Think of the schooling I could give her I 
Why, when she gets big I’d have her taught music, 
and I’d get her a piano, or at least an organ,” 

Sis had a vision of her baby, in a pink muslin 
dress, playing “ Rock of Ages ” on an organ, that 
had always been Sis Gower’s maddest dream of 
ambition. But — no baby — ah I 

“ What would mother think ?” said Sis, weep- 
ing. 

“ I feel sure she would think it just exactly 
right.” 

“ But what will father -think when he comes 
home ?” 

” Oh, I’ll settle with him easy enough,” said 
Mrs. Johnson. 


CHAPTER X. 


IN NATURE’S LAP. 

“ Rich in love of fields and brooks — 

The ancient teachers, never dumb, 

Of nature’s unhoused lyceum.” 

T here was a long silence between Mrs, John- 
son and Sis. Sis sewed, and dropped tears 
on her work. Mrs. Johnson rocked the baby and 
sang to it “ Jesus, lover of my soul.” At last Sis 
put her apron over her head and went out. Mrs. 
Johnson nodded, well content. Sis was going to 
take counsel with Ailsa, and “Ailsa had good 
sense,” Mrs. Johnson told herself. 

In fact, Sis found the Humes sitting down to 
supper. 

“ What you crying for, Sis ?” demanded David ; 
“ baby worse ?” 

” No, but — but — Mis’ Jonsing down by the brook 
wants to adopt her. Wants me to give her the 
baby !” 

“ That’s all right,” said David, coolly, cutting a 
slice of ham ; ” she ought to ’ve asked for her 
long ago. She’s rich, and got none, and you have 
five to do for, and it’s too much for you.” 

10 


145 


146 


Ragweed. 


“ Oh, David !” cried Sis, in dismay. “ I’ve got 
on so well with them !” 

“ So you have, considerin’, but you’re killing 
yourself. What is to become of the whole lot if 
you’re dead ? Why, it is the greatest thing for 
that baby ! Mis’ Jonsing is rich. She’ll make a 
lady of her. ’Taint so far ; you’ll see her every 
day, and Sikey lives there, anyway. Sis, if you 
don’t give her the baby you’ll be a bigger dummy 
than Pope Beals.” 

“ Come sit by me, lassie, an’ tak’ a cup o’ tea to 
quiet your min’,” said Ailsa, soothingly. “ Dinna 
be sae excited oyer this. At the worst, it is only 
fro’ ane hoose to the next. Is no Mistress John- 
son a guid Christian woman, wha will bring oop 
the child in the nurture an’ admonition o’ the 
Lord ? It is no like lettin’ the babe gae oot o’ 
the family, for the Bulk says we are a’ brethren. 
I hae known o’ cases whaur even parents refused 
to gie a bairn to ane wha could do weel by it, an’ 
the child cast it up against them later.” 

“ That would be dreadful,” sighed Sis. 

“ Sometimes, to luik mair at oor ain loss than 
the bairn’s gain is but selfish,” added Mistress 
Crathie. 

“ Sis couldn’t be selfish if she tried,” spoke up 
David. 

“And Mrs. Johnson is nice, and would not make 
the baby proud, so that by and by she would look 


tn Nature's Lap. 147 

down on you because she had better things,” said 
Janet, concisely. 

Sis flushed. 

“ If she undertook to look down on Sis, I’d 
shake the breath out of her,” said David, sharply. 

“ Hoot, mon !” said Ailsa. “ I wuss ye wadna 
talk sae steep. Ye ken the Bulk says that for 
every idle word men speak they shall be called 
into judgment; an’ it is idle indeed to say what 
ye ne’er wad do.” 

“ If the baby, or any of them whatever, now or 
hereafter, give Sis impudence. I’ll settle ’em, and 
I mean it,” said David. 

“ But suppose I give away the baby, and father 
comes home and does not like it, and feels hurt 
about it?” cried Sis. 

“ He went off from the baby, and from the 
whole lot of you, without a word,” said David ; 
“ he wouldn’t take it much to heart, I guess.” 

“ Yes, but when he comes home he will be dif- 
ferent — very sober and loving and good,” said Sis 
simply. 

“ Well, Sis,” said Janet the practical, “ tell Mrs. 
Johnson that if, when your father comes home, he 
is not pleased, and wants the baby back, and is 
able and willing to take care of it, she must give 
it back.” 

“ Your head’s level, Janet,” quoth David, eat- 
ing ham diligently. 


148 


Ragweed. 


“You all think I ought to do it,” said Sis, who 
had drunk the cup of tea Ailsa pressed upon her, 
but could not eat, as David had several times re- 
quested. She wiped her eyes on the corner of her 
apron, arose, and went out. 

“ She’ll do it,” said David, looking after her. 

“ Mis’ Jonsing,” said Sis, entering the little 
room where her neighbor still rocked the baby, 
“you — can — have her; but — you go home — and 
let me keep her to-night just.” 

“ See here. Sis,” said Mis’ Johnson, “ I know 
what you’ll do : you’ll lie all night hugging and 
kissing her and crying over her, disturbing her 
sleep and wearing yourself out. There’s no sense 
in that. If it’s well to do it, let’s not make a long 
job of it and, having thus unconsciously para- 
phrased Macbeth, Mis’ Johnson waited. 

Sis sobbed. 

“ I’ll take her along now. Sis, and to-morrow 
afternoon you come over and take tea with me, 
and you shall put her to bed. Why, girl, don’t 
cry; you’ll see her every day.” 

“ Take her quick, then,” said poor Sis, running 
into the little back kitchen and shutting the door. 
She loved this baby that her dying mother had 
committed to her childish arms. 

Mis’ Johnson wrapped up her prize and set off 
over the fields. Ailsa saw that the little tragedy 
was over. She waited for a time, and then went 


In Nature's Lap. 


149 


to Sis Gower’s. Sis, her eyes and nose very red, 
had just given her three children their supper. 
Her family seemed so small, her house so deso- 
late ! This was the first vacancy made in her 
little household. Tears ran over when Ailsa 
entered. 

“ Sis, lassie,” said Mistress Crathie, “ I mak’ 
noo doubt this is the Lord’s way o’ providin’ for 
the little bairn and widening out the life o’ Mis- 
tress Johnson. It’s hard the noo, but it will look 
a’ richt by an’ by. I hae had, in my ain life. Sis, 
to thole mony hard hours. The way I hae been 
led was aften no the way I suld hae chosen my 
ainsel’, but it was the Lord’s ain han’ led me ilka 
step o’ the way, an’ it has been a guid way, a richt 
way — a better way than I could ha’ foun’ for my- 
sel’. It will be so wi’ you, my lass.” 

Some of the neighbors thought Sis “ very lucky 
to be rid of one .of those children.” Sis had her 
own opinion about that, but as the weeks went by 
and she saw little Jane every day, and found that 
she was happy and thrived like a flower in fortu- 
nate places, she became reconciled. Besides, Sis 
was very busy. She was trying to lay up money 
to buy a cow and a pig. Since her father went 
away Sis had secured a fine flock of poultry ; she 
had had fuel enough and food enough ; in fact, 
the going of her father and the improvement of 
family circumstances seemed to have been simul- 


Ragweed. 


150 

taneous. In the one day-dream in which Sis 
indulged the return of her father was to bring in 
the age of gold, when the fair halcyons should 
fold their wings and brood over the untroubled 
waves of her life. Work is a fine rriedicament for 
sick hearts. Sis worked, and content came back. 

“ I must get the pig and the cow,” said Sis to 
Ailsa. “ On my wood-lot the trees are nearly all 
cut. Sikey and I went there and looked the other 
day. After this year there will be no more, and 
so I must raise a pig each year to pay my taxes. 
I want a cow too. Do you notice how scrawny 
Miss looks ? I think she ought to have new 
milk.” 

“ She can have a drink o’ fresh warm milk at 
my house night an’ mornin’, gif ye’ll send her 
o’er, an’ welcome,” said Ailsa ; ” but she’s no so 
thin as you are. Sis, by mickle.” 

” Oh, well, I don’t matter so much, but I want 
my children to look well. I don’t want folks to 
think I can’t provide for them, and I don’t want 
father to be disappointed when he comes home.” 

” When he comes home !” said David, deris- 
ively, to Ailsa when she told him of this ; “ he 
won’t come home, except to loaf and to live on 
them and to make life harder for Sis. If he tries 
that on. I’ll bust his head.” 

” David, David ! ye mauna say what ye willna 
do, ‘ Let your yea be yea, and your nay be nay. 


In Nature's Lap. 1 5 1 

for whatsoever is mair than these, cometh o’ evil,’ 
the Buik says.” 

David laughed: “Anyhow, I mean to stand 
by Sis.” 

“ That is a’ richt, an’ I wish ye could gie her 
some o’ your ain joyfu’, hearty, healthy life an’ 
way o’ feelin’ an’ doin’, my brave laddie,” said 
Ailsa, stroking her David’s strong arm. 

David had found the “ sweet life ” of Sirach’s 
son, “to labor and be content.” He had just 
enough of the animal about him to be bravely 
unconcerned about to-morrow and fearless for to- 
day. The stern kindness of the Adamic doom of 
labor had made him a man, self-reliant, alert, ab- 
solute, hearty, happy. He went whistling off to 
his work, and he came singing home. Going and 
coming, he usually passed, sitting on a fence-rail 
or a stone, that high-browed, thought-grave little 
philosopher Bruce, already dwelling in the shadow 
of the perpetual “ how ” and “ why.” 

Ailsa went to town one day to make some pur- 
chases and to visit Mrs. Garth. Janet dryly ad- 
vised her to “ take Bruce along, to keep him from 
helping.” 

Ailsa loved to talk to Mrs. Garth of the past— 
of the old life in Scotland, and the scenery and the 
people of the land she loved best. Mrs. Garth 
understood : she had breathed Scotland’s air and 
trodden heather. Such an hour of converse quiet- 


1 5 2 Ragivced. 

cd for a time the homesick longings of the Scotch- 
woman’s heart. As Mrs. Garth and Ailsa talked, 
Bruce, kneeling by the book-shelves, with gentle 
hands lifted down and turned over the leaves of 
the books in the library ; he looked at the plates, 
read a little, eyed the long rows, sighed, but was 
happy. 

“ I canna tell what is to become o’ the little lad,” 
said Ailsa. “ He is no like the ithers. I can un- 
nerstan’ them, but I canna unnerstan’ him. He 
is sae auld-farrant like ! Whiles I think in tiyin’ 
to train him I am like a hen raisin’ ducks. He is 
weel, he is happy, he doesna care for plays, but 
he thinks, thinks, thinks, a’ the time. An’ noo 
we hae a new school-teacher who is no like the 
ither; he just hears lessons oot o’ the books, but 
he canna feed the min’ o’ the bairn an’ fin’ oot 
what is« in it, like the ither.” 

Mrs. Garth watched Bruce and said nothing. 

A week later Mrs. Garth appeared early one 
morning at Ailsa’s “to spend the day.” The 
event was not unprecedented : her fashion of 
spending the day was to roam about out of doors, 
eating under a tree the picnic which she had 
brought with her, having an hour or so of con- 
verse with Ailsa, Janet and Sis on the porch in 
the late afternoon, and then going home as fast as 
the yellow wheels could carry her, alone, or with 
the doctor if he had chanced i;o be passing. 


153 


In Nature's Lap. 

There was nothing that Mrs. Garth loved better 
than such a day at Ailsa’s, devoted to botanizing, 
geologizing, and insect-hunting over the beautiful 
rolling acres, along the wooded banks of the creek, 
in the wood-lot, where newly-felled trees were a 
wonderful hiding-place for insects, in the green 
depths of the few acres of ancient forest, or in the 
sunny hollows of the lush intervales. 

On this day she asked for Bruce as a companion. 
They went out together. Woman and child : these 
are meet and natural comrades the world around. 
That day Mrs. Garth opened to Bruce the gates 
of a new life. She had divined the mystery of his 
being — a mystery to him, to her a solved problem 
learned in the volume of experience. She had 
with her a microscope and a simple book or two. 
She showed Bruce how to sit down by a lichen- 
covered boulder and find there a world — forests 
I peopled with living creatures, over which the 
shadow of a hand is as a cloud in the sky. She 
showed him how to find tropical forests in every 
bit of turf ; she showed him where beetles hide ; 
she took him to the margin of the pond and 
opened to him new worlds under a lily-pad ; the 
stones in his path told him stories ; she sat with 
him by an ant-hill, and helped him to find the 
ants and told him how to watch them. She told 
him the secrets of the leaves, and of the great 
colonies and nations that live and war and thrive 


154 


Ragivecd. 


and die on the branch of a tree or in a clump of 
meadow-grass. Then, when the eyes of the child 
blazed with excitement and his cheeks flushed, 
and he seemed lifted up and carried out of and 
beyond himself with the glory that had been re- 
vealed, she knew that she had not misread him. 
Much to his delight, she gave him the micro- 
scope and the little books. They went back to 
the house finally, and Mrs. Garth sat down to talk 
with Ailsa, who brought to her oat-cakes and a 
glass of milk. 

“Ailsa,” she said, “the child has a large mind. 
At present he has also a large, strong body. He 
must not let the growing mind dwarf and weaken 
the body. Do not worry the child about learning 
set things. Let him read. I don’t know that I 
should send him to school ; let him read ; and, if 
the teacher boards here, get such words as are 
new pronounced and explained ; always let him 
read. I will send him some books, but books 
suited to his age and taste are scarce. Let him 
study nature : turn him out to observe and rea- 
son upon and remember what wonders are upon 
every hand. He will gather store of facts that 
will lay the foundation of his life-work. The 
fact is, Ailsa, that once his feet are fairly set in 
the path of learning, he will press on and on that 
steep, alluring way, never arriving, never satisfied, 
his goal for ever retiring as he advances. He is 


In Nature's Lap. 155 

born to be a great man, and therefore unhappy; 
the greater he is, the less happy.” 

“ Oh,” said Ailsa, “ I canna bear that ! I wadna 
hae him unhappy, he is so guid and bonny ! I 
wad rather he were no great.” 

“You would make him still more unhappy if 
you should try to ward off unhappiness by driv- 
ing him into some line of life where he would not 
be great. You cannot help it. It is his rede.” 

“ But viaiin the bairn be unhappy ?” 

“ Kismet !” said Mrs. Garth, who was looking 
far away. 

Ailsa waited a little, then said, “ But, mem, this 
grieves me.” 

“ Do not grieve,” said Mrs. Garth ; “ perhaps 
he will never know quite how unhappy he is, and 
he will have his compensations.” 

Their Alruna Wife had spoken. The family 
regarded her words as the leaves of fate. She 
had said that Janet must be a teacher, and, lo! 
Janet had passed her examinations for the high 
school. That evening, as they sat on the porch. 
Aunt Ailsa told David the doom of Bruce : he 
was to be a very learned man — a great man. 

David meditated, and finally gave a deep sigh : 
“ I’m glad she did not put it on me ! Perhaps 
Bruce can stand it; I never could. What I want 
is to plough my own acres and cut my own corn 
and send my own lambs and wool to market.” 


156 


Ragweed. 


“ It is a gran’ life,” said Ailsa; “ the first father 
o’ our race, Adam, kept the garden, an’ when 
driven out he taught Cain to be a tiller o’ the 
groun’ an’ Abel to keep sheep. Ah, mon, I 
canna see a cornfield but I think o’ that canny 
Samson wi’ his foxes, an’ Ruth gleanin’ in the ripe 
fields, an’ our Lord wi’ the twel’ walkin’ thro’ the 
cornfields upo’ the Sabbath day. It is wonnerfu’ 
to drop the seed in sure hope that it shall rise. 
Think ye hoo it preaches o’ the resurrection 
an” the life? An’ mind ye the parable o’ the 
sower? It is gran’, just gran’, to think o’ walkin’ 
han’ in han’ wi’ God, who gies the increase an’ 
makes us his helpers i’ feedin’ the warl’ ! Ay, 
’tis a guid life, regular, quiet, useful — the’life o’ 
your forebears.” 

Ailsa had found, as Hammerton, that “ every- 
thing, almost, that the peasant does is lifted above 
vulgarity by ancient and often sacred associations,” 
and, with Lubbock, she had learned that “any 
useful occupation in life, however humble, is hon- 
orable in itself, and may be pursued with dignity 
and peace.” 

“ Well, then,” said David, “ it seems we are all 
satisfied. Janet is going to have what she wants ; 
I have got what I want ; you are suited with it. 
Aunt Ailsa ; and as for Bruce, if he is bound to 
be a great man and cannot help it, I hope he will 
be suited with it. And there’s one thing certain : 


In Nature's Lap. 


157 


I never mean to be ashamed of him, and I don’t 
intend to allow him to be ashamed of me.” With 
which assertion David went up to the bed where 
the future great man of the house of Hume was 
already soundly sleeping. 

“ It seems,” said David, who frequently found 
time to sit for a while in the evening on Sis Gow- 
er’s door-step or gate-post, “ that all of us Humes 
have got our plans laid out for us. What are you 
all going to be up to. Sis ? You ought to be plan- 
ning for your family.” 

” I can’t, very well,” said Sis, “ for, you see, I 
have father to consider. He may want everything 
different when he comes home.” 

“ Then I wouldn’t let him have it different, un- 
less it was a blessed sight better.” 

“ Of course it will be better,” said Sis ; “ father 
will be all right when he comes home. I e.xpect 
he is only waiting to make lots of money to bring 
us. As to plans, Sikey is to stay on with Mis’ 
Jonsing, and next winter is the last he’s to go to 
school. After that he’s going to get real big 
wages. The rest have to go to school. Lola is 
right quick at her book and at everything, and 
she sings like a bird. Besides, she’s going to be 
pretty. I’d like Lola to be a lady.” 

“And what about you. Sis?” 

“ Oh, nothing about me until all the rest are 
done well for,” said Sis. 


158 


Ragivecd. 


“ Hoh ! You might be old by then ! I say 
something about you. You ought to have a nice 
house, a nice room to sit in, a nice rocking-chair, 
a canary bird in a cage, good things to eat, nice 
clothes to wear, and a chance to get real rested — 
out and out rested. You might like some flowers 
in the window, like Mis’ Gage ; and if you w'ant 
books, you could have a shelf of ’em like your 
mother did.” 

” How I wish,” cried Sis, eagerly, ” that I only 
could have mother’s very own books back ! She 
liked them so ! No other books will ever be like 
those!” She stopped suddenly; this was impli- 
edly reflecting on that absent father, now reform- 
ing himself. 

“ I wish you might,” said David. 

The next time that David went to town to see 
about selling his wool he found an auction in 
progress on the public square. Among the things 
piled up ready for sale were a few books on a 
table. David concluded to wait until they were 
put up, and perhaps buy one or two for Sis. At 
least he would better go near and examine what 
they were. 

But it happened that this was a sale of the effects 
of a saloon-keeper who had dropped dead in his 
bar the week before. Moreover, it was the very 
saloon-keeper who had received all the money 
that Sis Gower’s father could handle ; and some- 


In Nature's Lap. 159 

times, when money was scarce, had accepted, as 
an accommodation, goods. 

When David opened the books, he saw written 
on the fly-leaf of each, “ Sara Gower.” 

“ What’ll you take for the lot ?” he demanded. 

Seeing a young countryman, whip in hand and 
in haste, the auctioneer said, “ Oh, if you want 
them, two dollars will buy the lot.” 

David handed over the money, and put the 
books in a white bag that he took from his pocket. 
He had brought the bag to town full of feathers 
to sell. Having the books, he went into a second- 
hand store and paid fifty cents for a little set of 
shelves, which he carried home before him on the 
saddle. 

How happy was Sis Gower that night when 
David hung up the little shelves, all polished with 
kerosene, and put upon them her mother’s very 
own books! What books were they? Oh, just 
the books a poor country teacher would be most 
likely to have twenty-five years ago : “ Scottish 
Chiefs,” a hymn-book, “ Pilgrim’s Progress,” ” Wa- 
verley,” “.^sop’s Fables,” “Willard’s United States 
History,” “ Young’s Night Thoughts,” an odd 
volume of “ The Lady’s Book,” one volume of 
Cowper’s poems, a Life of Henry Martyn, “ The 
Children of the Abbey,” a Fifth Reader, an An- 
cient History, and a Life of Mary, Queen of Scots. 

Sis Gower gazed on them with rapture — the lost 


i6o 


Ragweed. 


treasures of the house returned ! “ Oh, David, how 
respectable it makes the room look to have books 
in it ! If I can get some ferns down by the brook, 
and make them grow here all winter by the win- 
dow, won’t the place look nice, and won’t father 
be pleased with it when he gets home ?” 

No vision of the future was written on the air 
between them, but David felt, as he called it, 
“ creepy ” to hear her father thus spoken of, and he 
went home with a shadowed soul. There was no 
shadow over Sis Gower’s soul. She had back her 
mother’s books, and she took them as an earnest 
of her father’s penitence and return. 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE CELTIC SOUL. 


“ Long may the hardy, rustic sons of toil 


Be blessed with health and peace and sweet content! 
And, oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent 
From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile !” 


MELLOW October haze subdued the sun- 



l \ shine and softened all the outlines of the 
landscape. In the fields pale-tinted shocks of 
Indian corn stood in rows, each shock with a 
golden heap of" husked ears beside it. Along 
the roads big wagons filled with brown-plumed, 
dark-green sorghum-stalks went creaking toward 
the mills ; other wagons loaded with brown heaps 
of potatoes rolled toward the town ; the clatter of 
the threshing-machines was heard ; the bees swung 
in dizzy circles over the white acres of buckwheat. 
The land was stamped with progress and pros- 
perity. 

On her door-step sat Ailsa Crathie. She was 
alone and lonely. Janet had begun her school in 
town a month ago. She could come home, now 
and then, on Friday night to stay until Monday, 
11 161 


Ragiuecd. 


162 

but Mrs. Garth had impressed it upon her that 
the months of study were months of golden op- 
portunity, and that nothing should be allowed to 
interfere with school-work. 

David had gone to Chicago with two hundred 
sheep and lambs. This was David’s first little 
venture into the great world. He had not gone 
alone, but with Mr. Gage, who was also taking 
sheep to market. 

Bruce was, as usual, wandering over the fields, 
prying under stones and into holes, watching 
woodpeckers and kinglets running around the 
tree-trunks, squirrels speeding along fence-rails, 
or rabbits, brown as the fields over which they 
went leaping, but betrayed by their little white 
tails. 

Sikey Gower had invented for himself a clumsy 
corn-sheller, and Ailsa heard its click and clash 
as Pam and Lola shelled corn tor their chickens. 

That stray child Nathan Barber, born a Beals, 
was in the road, playing with a yellow dog which 
David had given him to console him for the loss 
of the companionship of baby Gower, now Jane 
Johnson. 

Ailsa looked across the wide landscape with its 
rich coloring, and deeper and deadlier grew upon 
her a fit of homesickness. She had had several 
such. She had been old to expatriate herself: 
she could not always adjust herself to such 


The Celtic Soul. 


163 


changed surroundings, the different speech, and 
household ways and habits of thinking. How she 
longed for those dull gray-blue skies which seem- 
ed to stoop so close over down and moorland, in- 
stead of this vast flashing, scintillating dome of 
turquoise blue ! Oh for a sight of the low bleak 
hills purpled with heather, the hazel clumps, the 
rowan and the lady birch, the fir and the oak, low- 
growing, gnarled and twisted by so many winter 
storms ! These towering walnuts and butternuts, 
the stately elms, and the broad domes of the 
maple were no doubt fair to see, flaming parti- 
colored now in the autumnal frosts, but they 
could never be half so dear as the weather-worn 
woodlands of her northern land. Her love was 
there ; it had struck its roots deep in graves — the 
graves of her kindred — and could not be torn away. 

She took up the lament that at first wailed 
above the hills of Judea: “Weep ye not for the 
dead, neither bemoan him : but weep sore for him 
that goeth away : for he shall return no more, 
nor see his native country.” No more, no more. 
O gray stone kirk where she had worshiped! 
O lichen-covered stones that marked the resting- 
places of her dead! blest braesides where the 
white flocks were feeding; and O little noisy 
burnies tumbling toward the sea ! O sheilings 
and byres and long stone farm-houses with their 
roofs of thatch 1 


164 


Ragiveed. 


She bowed her face upon her knees ; her knit- 
ting had fallen to the door-stone, and a little cat 
was making sad work with the stitches. She 
moaned forth the same low, passion-full cry with 
which the women of her people had moaned the 
flower of the clans fallen while the Norman Wall 
was building : “ 0-hon-a-ree ! 0-hon-a-ree !” 

But now out of the distance, as if swept up with 
the breeze from the river, came familiar sounds, 
shrill, high, piercing, prolonged, soul-stirring — 
such sounds as brought reprieve to Lucknow, the 
clear,'predominating call of the Highland pipers ! 
Ailsa held her breath and hushed her moans to 
listen. Was she deceiving herself? was she under 
a spell ? No ; clearer and clearer it came, wild 
chords of the wildest music known. Ailsa sprang 
to her feet ; her heart beat as if she had gone back 
over thirty springs. Yes, there he came, down 
the road, marching straight along the middle of 
the way, making long steps, his head held high, 
his chest thrown out — a “ Highland mon” in the 
McDonald plaid, kilt, sporran, philibeg, cairn- 
gorm, long stockings and tied shoes, his chanter 
under his arm, and his cheeks blown out round 
and purple. How many, many times had she as 
a child followed such music up and down the 
country town ! 

Ailsa knew that this wandering piper was no 
doubt too lazy to work, making his money by 


The Celtic Soul. 


165 


showing off his gala dress and playing his pipes 
along the roads, and spending that spare money 
in grogshops at night — a “ ne’er-do-weel ” surely, 
but as welcome just then as a saint ! She opened 
the gate for him ; she listened to his playing, while 
Nathan Barber and all the Gowers ran to stare 
and hear; she brought him new milk and oat- 
cakes and short-cake and scones. She had, for- 
tunately, but one silver dollar in her purse ; if she 
had had five just then, he would have been given 
them all. Her heart was in a tumult of love and 
longing for her native land ; she was sick for a 
sight of the dim haze of blue-bells across the sod, 
for the spicy scent of the heather. The wander- 
ing piper played his tunes, understanding this 
warmth of welcome. He was not inclined to tarry 
over long : the hospitality might soon be temper- 
ed by chill gusts of suspicion ; the town was far 
away and the sun was westering. 

But the Celtic soul is never without its residuum 
of poetry, and this idler divined that here was an 
exile doomed to lay her dust under alien skies ; 
as he passed down the road the dashing measures 
of Lady Flora MacDonald, which had taken the 
children’s breath away, were succeeded by the 
Coronach of Rob Roy, “ Ha til mi tiilidh !" — 

“ We return no more, we return no more !” Ailsa, ‘ 
leaning on the gate, caught the wailing notes ; she 
bowed her head and wept. Again she took the 


Ragweed. 


1 66 

lament of the Hebrews : “ He shall not return 
thither any more : but he shall die in the place 
whither they have led him captive, and shall see 
this land no more.” 

She lingered until the last notes perished in the 
distance, then she went into' the house and took 
her “ Book.” Here were words for her need : “ By 
faith Abraham, when he was called to go out into 
a place which he should after receive for an in- 
heritance, obeyed ; and he went out, not knowing 
whither he went. By faith he sojourned in the 
land of promise, as in a strange country. . . . For 
he looked for a city which hath foundations, whose 
builder and maker is God. . . . And truly, if they 
had been mindful of that country from whence they 
came out, they might have had opportunity to 
have returned. But now they desire a better 
country, that is, an heavenly : wherefore God is 
not ashamed to be called their God : . for he hath 
prepared for them a city.” 

The children reported that Mistress Crathie 
had been crying. When Sis had given them 
their supper of corn-bread and milk, she went 
over to Ailsa’s and said that she had come to 
take tea with her. When tea was over Ailsa 
asked her to go and “ walk a wee ” with her. 

* They went across the hills to the country burial- 
ground set off by the neighborhood when it was 
first settled. There Ailsa had bought the plot of 


The Celtic Soul. 


167 


earth where David Hume was buried, fenced it 
in neatly, and set up “ a braw white stone.” 
She stood looking at it in the last rays of 
sunset. 

“ When I am deid. Sis,” she said, “ you will 
see to it that I am laid here, near David. I maun 
rest by dust that is kin to me. I couldna thole to 
be laid alone. I hope the Humes wull bide here 
an’ lay their bones wi’ mine. But that is a’ as God 
wills, an’ when I win the Ian’ that lies verra far off, 
I ken I shall be satisfied.” 

That was a wakeful night for Ailsa ; her mental 
experiences, the sound of the pipes, had stirred 
her beyond the soothing of sleep. She knew that 
time, which brings balm for all human woes, would 
subdue and bear away this present fit of home-sick- 
ness; that others would follow it at longer and 
longer intervals, and be less acutely felt, but that 
only when she reached “ the land o’ the leal ” would 
this pain be gone to come no more. O nostalgia 
of the Scot, which seizes upon even the third and 
fourth generation of a transplanted line, making 
them feel at times as pilgrims and strangers even 
in a land where they were born ! 

David came home from his trip to Chicago feel- 
ing tenfold more of a man than ever. He was of 
larger frame and statelier height than most men ; 
he had been treated as a man, he had sold his 
sheep and lambs well, he had signed his name 


i68 


RagT.vccd. 


with an easy flourish to a receipt, and he had 
been called “ Mister Hume,” For the present 
life held nothing more to be desired — unless it 
was his supper when, the journey finished, he 
arrived at his own home. He came in with a 
swing and with his head held high: As he passed 
Nathan Barber and the yellow mongrel he pulled 
Nathan’s ear and bestowed upon him three sticks 
of mint candy ; then he went into the house, and 
as Ailsa turned with a smile of welcome to greet 
him, she looked so “ sonsie,” so motherly, all the 
home-life seemed so concentrated in her, that a 
quick reminiscence of his life with the Bealses rose 
up before him, and love and gratitude overflowed 
toward her who had made all so different. He 
bent down, putting a hand on each of Ailsa’s 
shoulders, and kissed her smooth fair cheek. She 
turned away with tears in her eyes and a little 
catch in her breath. So had David Hume, who 
now lay yonder under his white stone, kissed her 
when he left Scotland, “to return no more, nor 
see his native country.” 

Sis Gower was there with Ailsa ; she had come 
to help her clean house. Sis had her cotton frock- 
sleeves rolled up from her long, thin arms, a big 
wheat-sack was pinned about her for an apron, 
and she was washing a window. David looked 
at her sheepishly. 

“ Howdy, Sis?” .said David. 


The Celtic Soul. 169 

“ Fm well,” said Sis, primly, stooping for a piece 
of newspaper to polish the window. 

“Always at it?” said David, looking at Sis. 

“ Dear me ! I have to be !” cried Sis, cheerfully, 
“ with all my children to look after.” 

“ I saw Jane as I came by Mis’ Jonsing’s,” said 
David. “ She was playing in the yard, in a 
sky-blue calico dress and a white sunbonnet. 
My ! but she’s fat ! and she looked real tony. I 
say it was a good stroke to give her away. I 
wish that somebody’d ask for some of the rest 
of them.” 

“ I don’t,” said Sis, indignantly, pulling down 
her sleeves and wiping the suds from her red hands. 
“ I wouldn’t give away any more of them. Father 
shall not find his family all scattered when he 
comes home. Fm not sorry about Jane : that was 
all right. I see her every day ; she came up with 
Sikey this morning.” 

“ Come,” said David, “ let us have some let-up 
of your work now. Here’s supper on the table, 
— Hello, Bruce ! how are you ? Here’s a book 
I brought you. Hurry up, you and Nathan, to 
supper, Fm starved. — Aunt Ailsa, I didn’t bring 
you anything, but I did well with the sheep. — I 
didn’t bring you anything either. Sis. I — ” 

“ I should hope not,” said Sis. “ What should 
you bring me anything for? You gave me those 
books and the shelves a while ago, and I reckon 


I/O 


Ragtuced. 


that ought to last a long time for presents. I 
don’t care to get presents myself.” 

“ You don’t care for anything for yourself, do 
you ?” said David. “ You got lost and mixed up 
with other folks as soon as you were born, and 
you haven’t found yourself yet. I’m glad to see 
you eating a hearty supper for once, like a Chris- 
tian. Aunt Ailsa’s porridge is mighty good.” 

“ In Scotian’ ye wad no get onything but por- 
ridge an’ milk for supper,” said Ailsa ; “ but in 
this extravagant Ian’ ye maun hae meat an’ eggs 
as week” 

“ Why not?” said the lord of the Hume lands ; 
“ meat and eggs are plenty.” 

The next Friday evening Janet came home. 
The days were short now, and Sis was putting 
her children to bed when Janet came in with a 
big bundle in her arms : 

“ See here. Sis ; here is a plaid dress Mrs. Garth 
sent out ; she says you can make Lola and ‘ Miss ’ 
each a Sunday frock out of it. And this dark 
blue one is to make over for you. • And here are 
some patterns, and here is a magazine that tells 
about sewing and cooking and flowers and fixing 
your house up; it has patterns in it, and Mrs. 
Garth is going to send it to you every month. It 
will come in care of Mr. Johnson, and be put in 
the mail-box that is nailed to his gate-post.” 

What ! have a magazine of her own ? That was 


The Celtic Soul. 


171 

great splendor. Sis, ignoring what she had for- 
merly said about presents, unrolled her bundle 
eagerly and spread out the dresses, while from 
the bed the close-cropped brown head of “ Miss ” 
and the ruddy curls of Lola popped up to see 
what was going on. ^ 

“ Lie down, children,” said Sis ; ” to-morrow 
you can help me rip these frocks, and I’ll have 
yours done for you in a week’s time.” 

She sat down with the plaid dress on her lap, 
but looked at Janet. Janet’s hair was curled in a , 
neat brown bang over her forehead ; the thick 
wavy locks were drawn loosely back and tied 
with a red ribbon, while their soft curled ends 
fell gracefully about her neck. She had a white 
ruffle at her throat, and wore a brown-and-white 
check dress and buttoned boots. 

“ Janet, how nice you do look !” cried Sis, 
heartily. 

“Do I?” said Janet. “But you just ought to 
see some of the girls !” 

“ And are you having a nice time ?” 

“ Real ! I have to study ever so much, but 
that is what I went for, and if I’m going to be a 
teacher before I’m as old as the hills, I have to 
work for dear life. I start for school at half-past 
eight. Before then I have to put my room in 
order, and Mrs. Garth is very particular. At noon 
there’s only time for the lunch, and after school 


1/2 


Ragivccd. 


I sometimes take a walk with one of the girls or 
I walk or ride with Mrs. Garth. Mrs. Garth 
doesn’t let me go around the streets with the 
girls much, nor even to the post-office or depot. 
She says girls have no business to be seen at such 
places, and she detests seeing them for ever on the 
street. I have to be in at five, and study until 
six. Mrs. Garth lets me sit in the library for three 
hours and read over my lessons, so that if I have 
to ask her about anything, I can do so. After 
tea I stay in the library with the rest until seven, 
and then I go to my room and study until nine ; 
then I go to bed. Mrs. Garth doesn’t let me go 
out to tea or to visit. She says it interrupts 
my lessons, and that I see company enough at 
her house to learn how to behave myself I go 
to prayer-meeting with her on Wednesday even- 
ings, and to church Sunday evenings, and when- 
ever there is an elocution entertainment she takes 
me ; she says that is part of a liberal education.” 

“ Dear me !” said Sis, admiringly, as Janet drew 
her breath. “ Oh, if only, by and by, Lola could 
have a chance like that ! I wonder if I ever could 
lay up money enough to send her to a boarding- 
school for a year or so ? Are you going to take 
music ?” 

“ No ; Mrs. Garth says I have no time, and could 
not get anything to play on, and haven’t much 
taste. I did want to play ; my cousin Ida plays — 


The Celtic Sold. 


173 

mar-marvellously ! Her fairy fingers just fly over 
the keys !” 

“ Dear me !” said Sis, in profound admiration 
of Cousin Ida. “ If ever you go to see her, she’ll 
play for you. Now, Lola ought to play.” 

Again a little curly head bobbed up from a 
pillow : 

“ Oh, Sis ! won’t you earn money, and send me 
to boarding-school to play a’norgan an’ wear a 
bow an’ a ruffle like Janet?” 

“ Why, Lola ! are you awake ? Go straight to 
sleep. There is time enough yet, and no know- 
ing what I can do by and by — when father comes 
home.” 

“ Do you know,” said Janet to Sis, ” I heard 
Mrs. Garth talking to the doctor about Bruce. 
She says Bruce is a wonderful genius. She expects 
great things of him, and she says he must go to 
school and to college, and go to study in foreign 
countries ; and maybe he will turn out a great 
man, and perhaps write books or be a professor.^ 
Only think of that for our big-eyed Bruce that 
never says anything!” 

” My I Your cousin Ida will be proud of him, 
won’t she ?” 

” Humph 1” said Janet. 

“ I wonder,” said Sis, meditatively, “ if Pam is 
a genius? I wonder if Pam oughtn’t to go to 
college and write books? I might begin by 


174 


Ragweed. 


making him read all the books on the shelves. 
There’s a good many of them — and then — ” 

Here a heap on the floor, supposably Pam in 
a sound sleep, but too proud of his ten years to 
go to bed as early as girls and chickens, sud- 
denly sat up and demanded, 

“ Make me read all them books ? No, yer 
don’t!” 

“ Oh, Pam I not if it would make you a great 
man and teach you how to write books ?” said 
Sis, persuasively. 

“Write books?” said Pam, angrily; “there’s 
’nuff in the world ! There's a whole shelf full ; 
and teacher’s got a lot more, besides all the hymn- 
books at church ; and I just hate books !” 

“ But, Pam, think of college, and being a great 
man, and how proud father will be of you when 
he comes home !” cried Sis. 

“ Shucks !” said Pam, curling himself up and 
lying down, dog-like, again. 

Poor Sis sighed. 

Janet looked superior. Why not ? Her small 
brother was the incipient genius. “ Folks are 
made that way. Sis,” said Janet. “ Some are 
made for books, some not. Bruce likes books ; 
Pam likes work ; Si Beals didn’t like anything. 
Our David doesn’t care for books — only the Bible 
and farming books and the ‘ Complete Business 
Guide.’ ” 


The Celtic Soul. 


175 


“ Well,” said Sis, taking heart of grace, “ it’s no 
matter; what is good enough for David is good 
enough for Pam, I guess.” 

“ Only,” said the long-headed Janet, who occa- 
sionally did her Scotch blood justice, “ David has 
plenty of land ; Pam hasn’t.” 

” Well,” said Sis, looking troubled, “ when Pam 
grows up he can have — this place.” 

“ But there’s only ten acres ! we’ve got two hun- 
dred and sixty ! Besides, Sis, what would yoTi do 
then ?” 

” Why-y-y — maybe Pd go out to service, or — 
or — ” 

“And ‘ Miss’ and Lola — what would they do ?” 
urged Janet. 

Once more the heap on the floor bestirred itself : 

“ Shucks ! what be you gals planning for me for? 
I lay out to earn a farm for myself if I want one. 
Don’t you s’pose I can do nothing for myself? 
I ain’t a girl ! Girls can’t look out for themselves. 
Boys can, Pll let yer know !” 

Whereupon Janet abandoned that rigid propri- 
ety and good-society air which had characterized 
her since she entered. She bounced at Pam, took 
him by the collar, and shook him vigorously. 
“ ril let you know girls can give you a good 
dressing out,” she said wrathfully. “A pretty 
time of day it is when you, Pam Gower, set up 
to say girls can’t do anything ! Who but a girl 


176 


Ragiveed. 


has taken care of you this three years? You’d 
a’ been bound out or sent to the county-house if 
it hadn’t been for a girl ! Who has taken in work, 
and gone out working, and sold ties, and rented 
pasture-lots, and raised garden-stuff and chickens, 
and washed and mended and made, to keep you 
children fed and sheltered and all together ? As 
far as I can see, it’s a girl that looked out for her- 
self and for the rest of you. Take that for your 
impudence, so !” 

“ I, I, I — didn’t m-m-mean Sis,” blubbered Pam. 

“You’d better not mean Sis,” said Janet, with 
mischief in her big dark eyes, “ or you’ll have me 
to settle with.” 


CHAPTER XII 


THE POTENCY OF COUSIN IDA. 


A brow of pearl 


Tressed with redolent ebony 
In many a dark delicious curl, 
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone; 
The sweetest lady of the time, 

Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid.” 



HE high school closed for the winter vaca- 


A tion, and the next morning Dr. Garth, en 
route to see a patient near the river, deposited 
Janet at her aunt’s door. 

“ Coom here, lassie ! coom here,” cheerfully- 
cried Ailsa, who had seen from the kitchen win- 
dow the yellow wheels; “ye’re kindly welcome 
home !” 

Janet stood in the doorway of the summer 
kitchen. There was a busy scene, perhaps, just 
now, not very attractive to her. At a long table 
Mistress Crathie, in a large canvas apron, was 
rubbing and preparing, with salt and an odorif- 
erous decoction of spices and muscovado sugar, 
hams, shoulders and long, narrow cuts of bacon, 
12 177 


178 


Ragweed. 


getting them ready, in true Scotch style, for 
smoking. By another table stood Sis Gower, 
dextrously cutting up sausage-meat, judiciously 
providing fat and lean, while near her was Sikey, 
in his shirt-sleeves, vigorously grinding up the 
meat in Mrs. Johnson’s patent grinder. The back 
door was open, and through it Janet saw a fire in 
the midst .of which a circle of stones upheld a 
great iron pot filled with fat pork, which was boil- 
ing and bubbling at a great rate under the super- 
intendence of Uncle Mose Barr. David, seated 
on a tub turned bottom-side up, was scraping and 
cleaning pigs’ heads and feet, and putting the pieces 
into another tub standing beside him. 

“Ye are juist in the nick o’ time, lassie,’’ cried 
Mistress Crathie, cheerfully. “ We are bye ordinar 
busy the morn. Mistress Johnson has a sprained 
han’ ; an’ she has sent her pigs oop here to be 
attended to wi’ oor ain ; also she sent us Sikey an’- 
the sausage-cutter, an’ the great kettle, sae we are 
all busy enow.’’ 

“ Lola,’’ said Sis, in her usual brisk, hopeful 
tones, “ has gone to stay for vacation with Mis’ 
Jonsing, to wash dishes and to look after little 
Jane, an’ she is to get a dollar for it. That will 
buy her a pair of school-shoes.’’ 

“ Coom, coom, lassie,’’ said Aunt Ailsa ; “ rin 
awa’ to your room an’ and get on your warkin’- 
gown, an’ lend us a han’ down here.’’ 


The Potency of Cousin Ida. 179 

Sis Gower detected the reluctance expressed in 
Janet’s face. 

“ Oh, Mistress Crathie,” she cried, “ maybe 
Janet is tired, from school and her long ride; 
perhaps we don’t need her. I’ll work twice as 
fast — if I can.” 

” No, bairn, ye shanna,” said Ailsa, “ Gif Janet 
is tired, change o’ wark will rest her fine. Dinna 
hev a cloudy brow, Janet, lass ! When ye are at 
school, ye mun wark at the books wi’ a wull ; but 
when ye are no at school, then ye mun lay ban’s 
to the hame-wark wi’ a wull also. The wark that 
lies nex’ han’ is aye that wark to which the Lord 
calls us, an’ we maun no shirk it. Be brisk, noo.” 

Janet’s good sense told her that Ailsa was right, 
and the calmly insistent air of Mistress Crathie left 
nothing to be said. Janet went up to her room 
and took down her brown calico working-dress 
from the closet. As she took off the neat check 
gown and untied her new hair-ribbon she reflected 
that the girls with whom she had lately associated 
would not spend the vacation doing housework 
or helping in the multitudinous affairs of “ killing- 
time.” They would make fancy-work for Christ- 
mas presents, help decorate the infant-school tree, 
visit each other and enjoy little parties and candy- 
pulls. Then, as she sought out a pair of coarse 
shoes and took off her buttoned boots, common 
sense told Janet that she ought to be thankful for 


i8o 


Ragweed. 


the privilege of going to school at all. Sis Gower 
and Della Munson had no such opportunities ; 
and how cheery Sis always was, working for 
others and getting small thanks for it ! 

“ I would look well,” said Janet to herself as 
she buttoned her frock, “ to set up for a lady, and 
loll back in the rocking-chair while all the rest 
of them are working ! I can’t expect to be like 
my cousin Ida, for she was born in a magnificent 
mansion and her mother wore a velvet robe. I 
can’t expect to be like Mrs. Garth even, for she 
reads French and Italian and Spanish and I don’t 
know what all, and gets letters and visits from 
learned and great people. I’d better go down 
and help cut up pig !” So down ran Janet with a 
bright face and a gay “ Here I am !” which caused 
Ailsa to say to herself, “ Weel, the bairn is no 
spoiled yety 

“ What shall I do ?” asked Janet. 

“ Scald out yon lard-crocks an’ sausage-bags, 
lass, an’ then get yon great bowl and get they 
bits ready for the head-cheese. I dinna min’ gif 
ye mak’ the cheese all yer nainsel’ ; it will be a 
braw thing to ken hoo to do. Ye’ll na doot be 
a hoosekeeper yoursel’ some day. Set the iron 
kettle on the back o’ the stove, an’ hae it half fu’ 
o’ boilin’ water ; then put the meat in it, an’ keep 
it skimmed whiles ye scald the things yon and do 
ither wark.” 


The Potency of Cousin Ida. i8i 

Janet was soon as busy as the rest, but she was 
one to keep her tongue flying in unison with the 
motions of her nimble fingers. She told about the 
“ closing exercises ” — the singing, reading of the 
compositions, the room ornamented with vines and 
cedar. She told of the church fair, and of the tree 
that the infant school was to have. She had been 
invited to a party, but Mrs. Garth would not let 
her go; however, she had asked three girls to tea 
with her, and they had made nut candy and pop- 
corn balls. She had a basket of candy and a ball 
for each of the children. She told of her studies, 
of her chief friends, and of the gi/ls — not a few — 
whom she “just couldn’t bear!” “And, Sis, I see 
you’re getting crooked. That will never do ! It 
will make you look old while you are young. I’ve 
been taking gymnastics ; if you can take them, 
you’ll be straight as a dart and Janet held up 
her head and kept her shoulders back as she 
stepped about the kitchen. “ Mrs. Garth says 
that if you ever mean to be anybody, or to do 
anything that’s worth while, or to have good 
health and live - out half your days, you must 
keep your shoulders back. Then you will have 
strong lungs and plenty of fresh air in them, and 
you will digest your food and be strong. It is 
all in keeping your chin in. If you hold your 
chin in, you can’t have crooked shoulders. I’ll 
show you how. Sis, and I’ll teach you my gym- 


1 82 Ragweed. 

nasties, and you can do them every night before 
go to bed.” 

“ Oh, thank you !” cried Sis ; “ if there’s any- 
thing that you have learned that you think I can 
learn. I’d be so glad to have you teach me ! I 
don’t want my family to be ashamed of me when 
they grow up.” 

“Ye had no better let David hear ye talk like 
that, Sis,” said Ailsa, with a queer little smile; 
“gif ye do, he’ll begin to speak great swelling 
words about breakin’ heids. Gif David kep’ a’ 
his promises, there wad no be a whole bane i’ the 
neighborhood. I’m thinkin’.” 

Janet washed the big lard-jars, and carried them 
out to be ready for Uncle Mose Barr to strain 
lard into. She made ready the sausage -bags, and 
rubbed sage and summer savory and pepper to- 
gether for Aunt Ailsa to season the sausage-meat. 
Sis looked at her with great admiration. Sis 
thought it wonderfully good and beautiful for 
Janet to be willing to take hold and work in this 
way. She did not consider that there was any 
virtue in her own ceaseless toils : they were for 
her family ; her family needed her work. 

“ I’m sure,” said Sis to Janet as the latter stirred 
the boiling head-cheese, “your cousin Ida does 
not have to do such work. I guess she would not 
know how.” 

“ Of course not,” said Janet, looking a little em- 


The Potency of Cousin Ida. 183 

barrassed ; “ she never goes near a kitchen : she 
is always dressed in silk and lace, and she would 
ruin her clothes. She embroiders in gold and 
rainbow-hued silks, and plays on a lute, and sings, 
and sometimes she reads — letters.” 

“ Come, come, lass ; dinna be havering like this,” 
said Ailsa. 

“ Yes, she does !” cried Janet, flushing crimson, 
but she said no more about Cousin Ida. 

But if Janet had a cousin Ida, Sis had a father 
about whom to dream, and he was never long ab- 
sent from her thoughts. She presently took up 
her tale : 

“ Now I have to sell my pig, of course, as soon 
as it is big enough. I earn what meat and lard 
and sausage we use — earn it helping ; but when 
father comes home we shall kill our own pig — a fine 
large one — and then I shall have rows of jars full 
of lard and sausage, and I shall have head-cheese, 
and that scrapple Mis’ Jonsing makes, and a whole 
half bushel of doughnuts, like the Widow Munson 
has. Just Widow Munson and Della and the hired 
man — I don’t know how they use so many dough- 
nuts ! But they have them on the table three 
times a day, and that is what I shall do when 
father comes home.” 

Uncle Mose Barr, who had just. carried a big jar 
of lard into the pantry out of harm’s way, heard 
this remark. When he went out he said to David, 


1 84 Ragivccd. 

in a scoffing tone, “ That there Sis Gower is a-talkin’ 
’bout her par agin.” 

“ See here,” said David, his face black as a 
thunder-cloud with wrath, ” if you can’t twist 
your tongue to say ‘ Miss Sis,’ T’ll knock your 
head off. Do you hear?” 

David had not had the privilege of really fight- 
ing with any one since Saul Beals left. He was 
suffering from the over-peacefulness of his neigh- 
bors. He would have been glad if Uncle Mose 
had given cause of war then and there. 

But Uncle Mose had been too well brought up 
by his ” family,” the Barrs, to fight with white peo- 
ple ; he concealed a wide grin by bending in close 
inspection over the lard-kettle, and rejoined, 

“Wal, o’ co’se, boss, dat ar’s what I meant, suah. 
But don’ yo’ tink it’s jes’ like reck’nin’ on ketchin’ 
a hare by jes’ runnin’ after hit, or reck’nin’ on de 
hones’ intentions ob a possum, reck’nin’ on Mas' 
Jeems Gower cornin’ back ?” 

“ Who wants him back ?” said David, gruffly. 

” Wei, I don’,” said Uncle Mose, cautiously low- 
ering his voice ; “ he was jes’ a plumb disgrace to 
dis yere ’spectable neighborhood. He was alius 
a-drinkin,’ an’ he’d play craps with ary a nigger 
he could fin’ low-down ’nuff to play wid him. I 
don’ hoi’ to niggers playin’ craps, but w’en hit 
comes to white folks tryin’ it, boss, I makes suah 
d’ey ain’t libbin’ up to dere obligations. Yes, boss, 


The Potency of Cousin Ida. 185 

Mas' Jeems Gower was alius drunk ; he wasn’t 
alius miraculous drunk, tho’ I hav’ sot eyes on 
him in that condition.” 

” Well, you’ll never set eyes on him again, drunk 
or sober.” 

“ I hope not, boss — I hope not, though I do 
hear dat Miss Sis ’lows he’s suah to come home 
’spectable an’ prosperatin’. I hope I may live long 
’nufif to see dat day ; ef I do. I’ll live long as dat 
Methusalem de Bible done tell ’bout. Boss, I 
lef’ Ike up dar by de barn to scrape dat oder hog 
w’en it was done scalded, an’ de little black rascal’s 
gone lef’ de fire burn plumb out, an’ is firin’ 
stones at dat Shanghai rooster. Ef you’ll jes’ 
look after dis laad a minute. I’ll go give him as 
han’some a thrashin’ as he wants to see.” 

In three minutes Ike was racing around the 
j barn at a lively rate. Uncle Mose after him, rod 
; in hand ; but Ike, without half running, was 
always a yard in front of the rod. After two or 
three turns Ike shouted, 

“ Wha’ yo’ chasin’ me fo’ ? Ain’t I gwine buil’ 
up dat fire fas’ as I kin ?” 

“ See dat yo’ do, den,” said Uncle Mose solemn- 
ly, laying down his weapon. “ See dat yo’ do, or 
I’ll war you to a frezzle soon’s I lay ban’s on yo’, 
fo’ suah.” 

“ Sis,” said Aunt Ailsa, “ you ha’ cut sausage- 
meat until your arms are a-weary; let it be, noo. 


Ragivccd. 


1 86 

for David to tak’ oop, an’ do you get yon bowl o’ 
cracklins, an’ mak a drippin’-pan fu’ o’ cracklin 
bread, an’ half o’ it you sail tak home to-night 
wi’ you.” 

The vacation thus briskly begun proceeded in 
much the same fashion. It was nearly half gone 
before the work with the pigs was finished. Janet 
took her share in all the business of the day, and 
then, in the latter part of the afternoon, put on 
her check gown and her new red hood and made 
calls on Mis’ Jonsing or Mrs. Gage or Widow Mun- 
son and Della. 

Della brought her crazy-work and came to spend 
the afternoon with Janet. Della had a new gown 
of Dutch blue calico, a sun-bonnet of the same 
lined with red, and a gay plaid shawl, chiefly yel- 
low. She felt a deal of pride in her new outfit, 
and she wanted to learn from Janet whether the 
girls in town wore gloves or mittens, and whether 
they wore long bangs or short bangs, curled bangs 
or straight bangs. 

Janet, with her little air of superiority, gave the 
desired information, and, her taste being naturally 
good, and now for some time strictly formed on 
that of Mrs. Garth, she secretly condemned Della’s 
array as “ simply horrid.” 

“You ought to go to school in town yourself, 
Della,” said Janet. “ It would do you lots of 
good, and you’d know — about things. You 


The Potency of Cousin Ida. 187 

could as welt as not — your mother has plenty of 
money.” 

“ Ho !” said Della ; “ I wouldn’t go to town and 
live among those stuck-up girls for anything ! I’ve 
seen them turn up their noses at folks ridin’ in a 
road-wagon. If mother lays out money for me, 
I want her to buy six stuffed chairs and a looking- 
glass for the front room as soon as I’m old enough 
to have young men company. I’m past thirteen 
now, and if ever I can get through what they teach 
up here to the district school. I’ll thank my stars. 
I hate learnin’ lessons, I do, but I like fancy-work, 
and I learned this piece out of. a book that Sis 
Gower got from Mrs. Garth. Sis keeps talking 
about her father coming home. Mother says 
she’d think it was the last blessed thing any one 
of them would want. Mother says he never would 
do a hand’s turn of work. I think just like mother 
does. It’s all right to take hold and work for 
them as will lay to an’ help theirselves, but if they 
jest lie back an’ drink an’ smoke, they needn’t 
count on me; they may jest pile on.” 

Janet had now been so long with Mrs. Garth, 
having her conversation strictly corrected, that 
she found Della’s language very faulty, and won- 
dered how she had ever endured her company. 

“ It’s gettin’ darkish,” said Della, “ and mother 
will be scart if I stay out long. There’s Sikey 
Gower goin’ over to Mr. Gage’s to take over the 


i88 


Ragivccd. 

black Holstein calf — Mr. Gage bought it — so I’ll 
go home ’long with him ; he passes right by my 
house.— Ho there, Sikey ! wait till I git my bon- 
nit; I’m coming with you!” 

Janet went to the gate with Della and inquired 
of Sikey as to the health and price of the black 
Holstein calf. Sikey remarked that, as far as he 
was concerned, “ it wasn’t worth a rap ; it was 
alius a-bawlin’ ; never heard tell of a calf as had 
so much bawl in it.” 

“ I think,” said Janet to herself as she went back 
to the house, “ I’d rather get a school in town 
when I am ready to teach. Always, after I knew 
about my cousin Ida, I liked her way of living 
and speaking and dressing, and all that, better 
than what is around here.” 

When she had closed the door and was shut in 
to the society of her own family, Janet was well 
content. There was nothing there with which 
she was out of harmony. There was a fine man- 
liness about David — a certain self-posstssion, dig- 
nity and quiet assumption of authority which had 
come to him as the head of the household and a 
man of affairs — which Janet both admired and 
respected. 

Bruce, serene and silent, was already wrapt in a 
thought-world almost out of Janet’s reach. He 
came to her with his books to find out what this 
word meant and how that word was said, and told 


The Potency of Cousin Ida. 1S9 

her facts that he had discovered, and made sur- 
mises and uttered wonderments that made Janet 
set him in a niche apart as a marvel. He had 
hung on the wall his picture of the Holy Boy. 
It was still his favorite picture, but no longer his 
comrade : he had found comrades that lived and 
breathed — the creatures of the wood and field. 
He was “going for eight” now, he said, and he 
knew the Holy Boy could not hear his confidence 
nor see his gifts. But this Holy Boy was a pict- 
ure of One who had once trodden this earth, a 
living boy. What had he been like? Had he 
loved the brooks, the fields, the flowers — all living 
and growing things? He asked Ailsa, for she 
knew. 

“ Ay, bairn, I ken he did, fine. The boy is as 
the man is, an’ when he was a man he aye foun’ 
pictures o’ the Father’s grace an’ bounty in the 
springin’ o’ the mustard-seed, the puttin’ forth o’ 
the leaves o’ the fig tree. He said, ‘ Consider the 
lilies, hoo’ they grow ; Solomon in a’ his glory was 
no arrayed like ane o’ these.’ He spoke o’ the 
sparrows, puir birdies ! for whom God taks tent ; 
the cry o’ the young ravens, the little foxes rinnin’ 
to their holes, an’ the hen gatherin’ her chicks 
unner her wings. Ay, lad, he loved them a’ an’ 
cared for a’.” 

“ I wonder,’ said Bruce, “ if he remembered that 
he had made them and kept them all alive ?” 


Ragweed. 


190 

“ Ah, laddie, ye are askin’ questions aboon me ; 
ye hae thoughts too gran’ for your heid. Ye sal’ 
ken a’ i’ the nex’ warld.” 

In the evenings the family went to Romance 
Land under convoy of Janet. One of the high- 
school teachers had had a Saturday afternoon 
reading-club for some of the new pupils, and 
among these was Janet. They had read “ The 
Age of Chivalry ” and some of the “ Idylls of the 
King.” Janet was so interested that she took 
these legends for fact. To her they were as 
soundly historic as anything in the chronicles of 
ancient or modern times. While her reasoning 
powers were but little developed, her imagination 
was actively awake and her memory was exceed- 
ingly retentive. The dress, the manners, the ad- 
ventures of the days of chivalry were as real and 
clear to her as the hourly work of home or school. 
King Arthur, Lancelot, Gawain, Enid, Vivien, 
Merlin, Guinevere, Astolat, Sir Geraint, Caerleon, 
Edyrn, Modred — all the places and people — pass- 
ed before her auditors like a gorgeous lord mayor’s 
procession. 

When David heard of these plumed, corsletted, 
helmed and gallant knights, who rode forth, sword 
in hand and lance in rest, and with scant courtesy 
toppled over whosoever came in their way ; when 
he learned how they ” would not take one bit of 
cheek,” but clapped spurs to steed and rushed like 


TJie Potency of Con sin Ida. I9I 

a whirlwind upon their adversaries, always leaving 
said adversaries gasping on the plain ; when he 
was told how the chivalric men of the Round 
Table slew giants, dragons, lions, bears, tigers, 
and boars, — then was his heart lifted up within 
him, and he felt that he himself was built of the 
granite out of which are hewn heroes. 

Aunt Ailsa found the story of the search for 
the Holy Grail “ rank popery,” and hoped Janet 
would “ beware o’ sic misleading’ nonsense.” The 
giants and dragons she accepted as “ possible a 
long time ago, syne the Buik spoke o’ them.” 

David, while he greatly admired the knights, 
held a very poor opinion of the mediaeval ^dames : 
They were always crying. S’pose they were 
pretty — what of that, when they were such ’fraid 
cats ? ’Seemed as If they were always shrieking 
and screaming about something. Why, Sis Gow'er 
had stayed alone in her house with the children 
ever since she was thirteen ; Sis wasn’t ’fraid, 
though. He had often told her that she ought 
to keep a dog, but Sis said it cost a good bit to 
keep a dog, and Pam and Lola might tease it, 
and get bit if it was real outrageous severe. 

Mistress Crathie shared David’s views about 
the general inefficiency of the dames of chivalry. 
She had never learned that beauty is its own ex- 
cuse for being, and she said they “ seemed to be 
puir, do-less bodies, wha’ thocht o’er much o’ their 


192 


Ragweed. 


luiks, an’ it was verra ill-considerate o’ them, trape- 
sing aboot i’ silk gowns, an’ goold an’ siller an’ 
precious stones on them, to tempt ne’er-do-weels 
to thieve an’ plunder. Ladies had 110 business 
abroad wi’ diamonds i’ their ears an’ goold brace- 
lets an’ chains on. They had better bide at hame.” 

Ailsa herself contributed Scotch ballads to the 
evening’s entertainment. The children all laughed 
at “ Come under my pladdie.” Janet preferred 
“ Hunting Tower.” She said it made her think 
of Cousin Ida. 

“ I’d quit talking of her, if I were you,” said 
David, shrugging his shoulders. 

“ I won’t,” said Janet, contumaciously. 

“ Girls are queer creatures. What a stupid you 
must be !” said David, with the refreshing frankness 
brothers are prone to use toward their sisters. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


REALISM AND IDEALISM. 

“ Ye have seen — what ye have seen.” 

OUTH is the time of hope, not of memory. 



-I- The young seldom trouble themselves to 
look backward; their golden palaces, their ideal 
personages, are before them. It is because they 
do not burden themselves with memories that the 
young are slow to learn by experience and con- 
tinue to expect the impossible. Doubtless this 
explains why Sis Gower was looking with bright 
anticipations toward her father’s return. 

If the mother had been alive, she would have 
been pretty sure that her truant husband would 
come home to lead his drone existence at her 
expense. She would have known better than to 
expect him back strong, honorable, diligent, lov- 
ing, prosperous. He was not made of such paste, 
as the Italians say. Can the leopard change his 
spots, or the Ethiopian his skin ? It was open to 
Sis to remember her father idle, selfish, cross, ab- 
sent for days, then coming home nervous, shaken, 
irritable, excited. She might-have looked back to 
13 . 193 


194 


Ragweed. 


times when he had taken the very bread out of his 
children’s mouths, and added by sharp complaints 
to the burden of her mother’s toils. But Sis did 
not look back. She saw here and there cheerful, 
happy, busy, generous, affectionate fathers. That 
kind of father would suit her exactly ; it was the 
fashion of parent she meant to have. The absent 
father would return made over into that good like- 
ness. In ancient days men made pilgrimage to the 
Holy Sepulchre for their sins, and came back clean 
of taint to live honorable lives : some such miracle 
was to be wrought in her father. 

When Sis uttered these hopes before David, he 
made no contradiction. He had known James 
Gower for a year, and the last thing that he de- 
sired was to see him return. But it was pathetic 
to hear Sis planning for the future with the regen- 
erated Gower as its largest factor. “If she choose 
to, hope, let her hope,’’ said David to himself 

“ By and by,’’ said Sis, “ my children will all be 
grown up and married, and gone away and settled 
themselves. Then father will be old, and he and I 
will live here together, and I will not let him feel 
lonely for mother. I will read the Bible to him, and 
talk to him, and wait on him, and we will be happy.’’ 

This was the large maternal heart of Sis, plan- 
ning for a father needing motherly tendance, who 
should fill her heart and her hands when her chil- 
dren were grown up and gone. 


Realism and Idealism. 


195 


Why did not David undertake to give Sis what 
he called “ a good settin’ down ” about her father, 
such as he gave Janet, one February day, about 
Cousin Ida? 

“You silly, to be always talking about your 
cousin Ida ! What did she ever do for you ?“ 
said David, shaking his big head. 

“ She did a great deal for me,” said Janet, ris- 
ing up in defence of the absent. 

“ I don’t see,” said David, arranging himself 
for an argument, “ how a person that you never 
saw could do you any good.” 

“ She did,” insisted Janet. “ Would you have 
wanted me to be like Mrs. Beals, to be lazy and 
dirty, to use bad language, and to sneer and dip 
snuff? Would you want me to be noisy and 
bold, and to act like some of the girls that go to 
our district school ? I might, if it had not been 
for Cousin Ida. Thinking how nice and quiet and 
proud and lady-like she was, I wanted to be that 
way too, and I couldn’t bear folks that were far 
away from like her — and — well, I kind of measured 
folks by her, and when they were not like her, I 
didn’t care for being much with them or learning 
their ways. I can’t really explain it to you, David, 
but she helped me ever so much.” 

“ For my part,” said David, “ I don’t swear by 
folks that hasn’t more solid flesh* and blood to 
’em, more real ‘ git up an’ git,’ than Cousin Ida.” 


196 


Ragzvecci. 


“ But, David, you don’t know everything. Let 
me tell you what I heard a gentleman saying one 
evening to Dr. and Mrs. Garth. It was Saturday 
evening, and I was allowed to stay down stairs, as 
all my lessons were learned for Monday. He was 
a college professor, David, so of course he knew 
what he was talking about. He said nothing 
really was except as we made it in our own 
mind — that we had an idea of a thing, and that 
was the thing. We think things, and they are. 
So, of course, whatever we think is as much real 
as — as — as anything.” 

” ’Cordin’ to that, we couldn’t tell nor believe 
no lies, for just thinkin’ ’em so would make ’em 
so, sartain ! Don’t believe it !” 

” He said there wouldn’t be sound unless for 
the drums in our ears — ” 

“ There’s no drums in my ears, you bet !” said 
David. 

“ There is light because we see it — in our minds. 
Things are, because we think them ; and what we 
think- is what is.” 

“ That’s the plumbest nonsense ever I heard in 
my life, an’ that man ought to go to the asylum. 
S’pose I don’t believe there is any fire ? — that 
wouldn’t hinder my bein’ burnt by the fire, would 
it?” 

“ You’d believe in the fire quick enough as soon 
as it burnt you. You’d think fire then. Seeing, 


Realism and Idealism. 


197 


hearing, feeling, and I don’t know what else, are 
the ways things get into our mind, and they are 
— well, they are because we think they are.” 

“ Shucks, Janet ! Such foolin’ ! I wasn’t here 
to see the fire that day Bruce set it a-goin’, but 
there was a blaze all the same, ’pears to me.” 

“You weren’t here to see, but the rest of us 
were.” 

“ If there hadn’t been a livin’ soul here, the fire 
would ’a’ been here all the same, an’ burnt down 
the barn an’ the sheep-sheds. ’Cause I never saw 
any lions, that doesn’t make it that there ain’t lions. 
’Cause Joe Leeds doesn’t believe there is any God, 
that doesn’t make it that there isn’t any. I can 
crack you a verse on that, as Aunt Ailsa says : 
‘ The fool hath said in his heart. There is no God.’ 
I s’pose the fool said that, so long as he didn’t see 
or hear or feel God anywhere, there wasn’t any. 
He was a fool, all the same, and when he got dead 
I reckon he found it so.” 

“ But, David, if you’d heard this professor talk, 
you’d have understood about it.” 

“ I’m glad I didn’t. I don’t want to waste my 
time hearing such trash. Set you up with the 
notion that your cousin Ida was just as good as 
other folks, didn’t it ? That’s enough for me.” 

A few evenings after this, when David and Ailsa 
were alone, David told his aunt that “ maybe it 
wasn’t doing Janet any good to beat Mrs. Garth’s. 


198 


Ragivecd. 


She was getting set up with a lot of cranky no- 
tions, just reg’lar infidel, like Joe Leeds. Don’t 
believe in nothin’ they don’t see, and think they 
make everything by thinking of it; and, at that 
rate, they make their God, if they have any. He 
didn’t believe in it, for his part.” And he tried to 
repeat what Janet had said to him. 

Mrs. Crathie meditated for a while: 

“David, the ’lassie is improvin’ brawly. Na 
doot she hears mickle she canna comprehend, but 
by an’ by she will sort oot a’ that she learns, an’ 
coom to a fair realizin’ sense of what is true. Ye 
maun expec’ Mistress Garth to say things aboon 
Janet’s graspin’, her frien’s the same, and Janet 
canna gie a clear report o’ it a’. I ken Mistress 
Garth weel, an’ I am sure she has the love o’ God 
shed abroad in her hairt, an’ his grace in her life,” 

“ Maybe so, and maybe not so,” said David, 
shaking his head. “ If what they want to make 
of Bruce is a man to talk such trash, I’d rather he 
ploughed all his life.” 

In truth, David had never accepted Mrs. Garth 
as cordially as the others had. The laughter that 
had rained from her eyes into his on that day, 
now two and a half years gone, when he had been 
cutting apple tree to cook the sorghum, still 
rankled- in his soul. The Celt and the Indian 
have long memories. 

Aunt Ailsa, failing to alarm herself as to the 


Realism and Idealism. 


199 


orthodoxy of Mrs. Garth, and Janet not being 
where her new vagaries could be combated, David 
might frequently be found leaning on Sis Gower’s 
door-post. He did not lean on the gate, because 
Sis never came out there. Sis had no time for 
idling : she made sheets, pillow-cases, towels, 
aprons, check shirts and children’s frocks for the 
entire neighborhood. No doubt David found the 
idiosyncrasies of Sis Gower more tolerable than 
those of Janet. Other girls’ fads are more en- 
durable than your sister’s. 

“ Lola,” said Sis, ” you and ‘ Miss ’ go and bring 
in the washing. Lay a sheet on the grass, and 
put all the clothes on it ; then climb up and take 
down the line. Pick up all the pins, and then put 
the clothes on the kitchen-table and fold them 
down as I showed you. Put all the small pieces 
on top, Lola, so that you can iron them before 
you go to school to-morrow.” 

“ Pm glad you make them work,” observed 
David- 

“ Of course I do ! It is my duty. They ought 
to work. Then I have more time to earn money. 
I worked when I was their age. If I hadn’t, what 
would I have known when mother died and left 
me alone with them? If I die, Lola and ‘ Miss' 
ought to know enough to take my place.” 

“ Now, what are you talking about dying for ?” 
growled David, 


200 


Ragivced. 


“ Oh, I don’t mean to die if I can help it,” said 
Sis — “ not until I have my children provided for. 
Of course, Lola and ‘ Miss ’ will need to know 
how to keep house and do work if they’re going 
to get married. I have it all planned out : they 
will all four of them get married some time, and I 
shall go to their weddings and help them settle in 
housekeeping.” 

“ And what will you do ?” 

“ Oh, stay here and take care of father. Per- 
haps Pam and his wife will want to live here 
too.” 

“ And when will you be married ?” 

“Oh, never, I expect. You see. Pm not pretty 
at all, and I am too busy to have time for court- 
ing. Then, from what Pve read in books, some- 
body has always to be asked if a girl can marry 
— a father or a mother. There it is, you see : my 
mother is dead, and my father hasn’t come home. 
I could never marry until my father came home 
to give his consent. It would not be proper, and 
he might not like it.” 

“ How about the others, then ?” 

“ Oh, I can give consent for them, I suppose. 
The young men will come and ask if they can 
have Lola and Miss, and I will say, ‘ Certainly,’ 
if they are the good sort. I think I would have 
that much right — don’t you ? I’ve been rather 
a mother and father both to them.” 


Realism and Idealism. 


201 


“I should say ‘you had,” said David. 

As Sis preferred only to talk about her family, 
and not herself, David sometimes found it pleas- 
anter to stand by his own gate and admire the 
fine spring evenings, and all those signs about 
him which indicated that “the hand of the dili- 
gent maketh rich.” He was standing thus one 
afternoon in April, having come up early for his 
tea, when a mean-looking man, a stranger, came 
along, inquiring, “ Jim Gower live around here ?” 

“ Used to,” said David, curtly ; “ he’s gone.” 

“ He’d a house an’ farm, hadn’t he ? Will you 
p’int ’em out? S’pose he didn’t take ’em when 
he went, eh ?” 

David “sized up” his man with a long, slow look. 
“ Mebby I might point out the place if you’d come 
round behind the barn,” he suggested. 

They went behind the barn, and David, leaning 
commodiously against the fence, offered his guest 
a seat on a barrel lying upon its side. 

“ Stranger in these parts ?” said David. 

“ From St. Louis,” said the stranger. “ I’m a 
capitalist. I lend out money on farms and so on.” 

“ You don’t look so very flush,” said David with 
aplomb. 

“ I don’t go in for no show, but I’ve got the 
shekels.” 

“ How did you hear about Jim Gower’s place ?” 

“ Met him in St. Louis. Jim wanted to borrow 


202 Ragweed. 

some money of me, and he offered to sell me his 
place for it, cheap. But I don’t take bargains I 
haven’t looked into, so ez I was coming down this 
way, I thought I’d look it up and see ef it was 
worth the two hundred dollars Jim wanted.” 

David’s blood boiled. However, he made noble 
efforts at self-control — for the time being. So ! 
Jim Gower was in St. Louis. And, not content 
with abandoning a brood of children, he was try- 
ing to sell roof and hearth ! He spoke grimly : 

“Jim’s fooled ye. He doesn’t own ary rod of 
land nor stick of timber. His wife us’t to teach 
'school, an’ she bought her a house an’ ten acres 
before she was married, and put three hundred in 
the bank. Jim used up all that was in the bank, 
but he never had nothin’ to say to the land, and it 
was left to his fambly. Garth and Porter holds 
the care of it, and if you want to know it’s so, and 
Jim can’t touch it, you call in on them in town.” 

“ Well, brother, while I’m out here I might as 
well look at the place ; mebby Jim’s fambly will 
want to do somethin’ for him.” 

“ I ain’t no brother of yours,” quoth David ; 
“ I’m white folks. I am rather particular who 
brother’s me.” Then, reflecting that it was idle 
to conceal the whereabouts of the Gower prop- 
erty, he added: “Yon’s the house and land over 
there, and — you’re not going near it. If you 
stop foot before that gate, you’ll have me to an- 


Realism and Idealism. 


203 


swer to. Do you see the make of that arm ?” — 
and David drew up his right arm and struck out 
with it like lightning — “ I can fell an ox if I lay 
myself out to,” 

” An’ if yer knows where to hit, brother.” 

” Don’t ‘ brother ’ me ; and I do know where to 
hit. I’m in charge of that Gower fambly. The 
night the mother died she put me in charge of 
the whole lot, and I look after them,” 

” Women are always doing some mean thing 
like that to stir up a fuss,” complained the capi- 
talist. 

“ That’s because there are so many grasping, 
mean, low-down scamps of men in the world,” 
said David, with evident intention. 

The capitalist was fidgeting about on his bar- 
rel like a wasp buzzing after an opportunity to put 
in some of his fine work ; but David looked so 
alert, so self-possessed in his massive strength, 
that it might be safer to treat him with humility. 

“You hear what I say,” iterated David: “if 
you go near that house or open your head to one 
of the Gowers, I’ll horsewhip you till my arm 
drops, if I have to chase you to St. Louis to do it.” 

“ Nice farm, this,” said the capitalist, coolly turn- 
ing the theme. “ Yours ?” 

“ Yes, it is.” 

“ What’s it in ?” 

“ Sheep and corn and some wheat,” 


204 


Ragivced. 


“ Oh ! How many sheep do you winter?” 

“ I mean to try fifteen hundred next winter ; but 
I’ll have to hire pasture.” 

“ Oh ! The wool and the lambs and mutton 
must bring you in a proper pile of money.” 

“ That’s so,” said David. 

“And all yours?” 

“ In the family. Mine and my aunt’s, and I 
run it.” 

“ Oh ! The world goes easy with you, brother. 
You ought to be pretty well suited with yourself” 

“Yes,” said David, nonchalantly. “Some peo- 
ple are always fretting and fuming because they’re 
not suited with themselves. I’m suited. I suit 
myself, looks and all, clear down to the ground !” 

Here a loud noise of altercation arose on the 
other side of the barn, and Uncle Mose Barr and 
Joe Leeds came in sight. 

“ What’s the row ?” demanded David, greatly 
interested. 

“ W’y, boss, Joe Leeds, he jes’ cheatin’ me out 
o’ my eye-teef !” 

“ I sold him half a beef las’ month,” said Joe 
Leeds, defiantly, “and I’ve come after my money. 
Mose said you’d pay me when he took up his 
wages. It ain’t cheatin’, is it, to come after my 
money? You pay me, David — it’s thirteen dol- 
lars.” 

“ Don’ you pay him a cent,” cried Uncle Mose ; 


Realism and Idealism. 


205 


“ don’t, boss ! W’y, dat half a beef wasn’t wuth 
nothin’. He tole me hit was bes’ yearlin’ beef, 
fat as butter, an’ he took it down dare to my ole 
woman w’en I was up here wukkin’, an’ dey cut 
it all up an’ put it in salt ’fo’ I got home, ’cept 
some of it. An’ my my ole woman, she biled it an’ 
biled it all day long an’ mos’ all night ; she baked 
it an’ she chopped it, an’ she did everyting to it, 
an’ not one of dem little niggers had a toof sharp 
’nuff to get troo it! Yearlin’ beef! W’y, boss, 
hit was dat ole cow from Mas’ Jones’ sale, twenty 
years ole ef she was a day, an’ he got her for six 
dollars, boss.” 

“ What did you lie to Mose that way for ?” de- 
manded David fiercely, turning to Joe Leeds. 

“ I didn’t,” said Joe, ” not a word. I told him 
it was yearlin’ beef, an’ it was. When I bought 
that cow she was bare skin an’ bone. I kep’ her 
a year, fattenin’ her, an’ I laid on her every bit of 
flesh an’ fat she had on her, and it was yearlin’ 
beef, ef I know anything ’bout beef.” 

At this dialogue the capitalist shrieked with joy, 
and in a paroxysm of laughter fell off his barrel. 

” You and Joe Leeds would make a pretty pair 
of partners,” said David, gruffly. — “ Joe, I sha’n’t 
pay Mose Barr’s wages to you. I’ll pay him when 
his month’s up, and you and he can fight it out 
between you. — Mose, go to see to those sheep. 
— You capitalist, if that’s what you call yourself, 


2o6 


Ragweed. 


you’ve made a mistake if you think you’ve got 
any business around here. I’ve told you all there 
is to be told, and you’d better move on toward 
town.” Then, seeing that the man looked re- 
flectively toward Joe, he added: “Joe, I don’t 
care to have you around here. My aunt doesn’t 
like you about, because you’re always swear- 
ing. — I’m going five miles toward the town, mis- 
ter, and I’ll give you a lift if you’re going that 
way.” 

He had decided, to put five miles between 
Sis Gower and the man who had seen her 
father. 

The stranger helped him to harness the sulky, 
and David, calling to his aunt that he didn’t want 
any supper, drove rapidly, off with Jim Gower’s 
friend. 

“ There’s a man round here named Beals, ain’t 
there?” said the capitalist, looking askance at 
David. 

“ Jim told you about him, I reckon,” said Da- 
vid — “ told you that he had pockets full of cash, 
wore a cloth coat and plug hat every day, and ate 
turkey reg’lar, didn’t he ?” 

“ Well, no; he hadn’t much to say about Beals — 
reckoned him a sort of low-down critter ; but he 
said there was a boy living with Beals — a smart 
sort — might come to somethin’ if he was looked 
after proper.” 


Realism and Idealism. 


207 


“ Oh ! did he ? Jim wanted to look after him 
an’ be a father to him, did he? If Jim’s got 
any ’tentions to spare, he’d better put them 
on the raft of children he left behind when he 
skipped.” 

“ Jim Gower didn’t care about the boy, but I’m 
wantin’ a smart chap to train up in my business, 
an’, seein’ he was a tidy*orphan, I thought I’d give 
him a chance.” 

“ Well, he don’t want none of your chances. 
Jim told you the boy owned the farm, and you 
laid out if you got him with you, and give him 
whisky and tobacco an’ gamblin’ enough, he’d 
turn the farm over to you as soon’s he come of 
age. Much obliged, stranger; I can look after 
myself. I’m that boy.” 

They drove on in silence until they saw two 
men sitting on the roadside before them doing 
something with cards. The capitalist became 
much excited. 

” See there ! Do you know what they’re up 
to? It’s just the neatest little game when you 
know it ! I can tip you the wink about it, and 
you can clean them out as easy, and serve ’em 
right too ! The rascals are sittin’ there lookin’ 
for some one to come along to them. They’d 
suspect me, mebby — I look sharp — but you look 
innocent, and they’ll never know what you’re up 
to till yoh’ve got their pile. You just follow my 


208 


Ragiveed. 

lead, and make the motions as I wink at you, and 
we’ll send them flyin’ !” 

David drew up at the roadside : “You may get 
out, Mr. Capitalist. I’ve carried you far enough.’’ 

“Ain’t you goin’ to stop to the game or take me 
farther ?’’ 

“ Not if I know myself Do you s’pose I don’t 
read the papers, and never*heard tell of confidence- 
men ? My eye’s peeled. You come up in this 
neighborhood again, and I’ll lam you to flin- 
ders and turn over the pieces to the constable. 
I lay he can find some sheriff that’s wanting 
you.’’ 

Then David wheeled about in fine style and 
rattled up the road. His countenance expanded, 
his spirit felt mightily refreshed ; he was more 
satisfied with himself than ever ; he had routed a 
capitalist, horse, foot and dragoons. Fate had 
forbidden that he should live in the “ good old 
days’’ when robbers and lions lurked at every 
turn in the road ; he was doomed to wear flannel 
and denim instead of gleaming armor, flashing hel- 
met, waving plume, and chiseled shield ; it was not 
his to ride about on a warlike steed that walked 
generally on its hind legs and pawed the air with 
its fore feet. All the same, he had defended Sis 
Gower and her family and scared off a sharper, 
and, though he had not thrashed him, he had 
threatened him terribly. 


Realism ajid Idealism. 


209 


The grass was soft and fresh along the road- 
sides ; the trees and shrubs were putting on the 
first faint hazy green of their bursting buds ; the 
sunset was blazing in crimson and gold turquoise, 
glorious as the “ blue and purple from the isles of 
Elishah.” For the moment David had nothing 
left to desire. 

14 


CHAPTER XIV. 


A DOLL STUFFED WITH SAWDUST. 

“ I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, — past the 
wit of man to say what dream it was : man is but an ass, if he 
go about to expound this dream.” — Shakespeare. 

OT all men are endowed with tender sym- 



1 ^ pathy ; some have hearts hardened like 
Pharaoh’s. This arises, no doubt, from that nat- 
ural depravity which has come upon men in con- 
sequence of the fall of Adam, or because at their 
baptism the devil is not brought sufficiently under 
subjection.” This was no doubt the case with 
David Hume, and the reason why he felt angered 
at Sis Gower after the visit of the capitalist. How 
absurd, how wrong, was Sis, to be building faith, 
hope and affection into a shining altar whereon 
she meant to sacrifice herself and her all to that 
contemptible renegade her father ! David was in 
a superior “ I-told-you-so” state of mind, and part 
of the time he arraigned Sis at the bar of his judg- 
ment, as if she knew all that the capitalist had 
divulged ; again, he resolved to go to Sis and for 
ever rout her fancies by telling her the sharp 


truth. 


210 


A Doll St)iffed with Sawdust. 2 1 1 

Intent on this somewhat brutal frankness, David 
would go over to the house of Sis Gower, and, 
leaning his broad shoulders against the door-post, 
would prepare to divulge. Then Sis, lifting her 
gentle blue eyes from the work on the machine, 
would tell him how nicely Pam was getting on in 
school, or that Lola was learning to make button- 
holes, or that Miss had nearly learned to read, 
and “ father will be so glad when he comes 
home !” and David, who would have dared in 
fight any man in the neighborhood, would feel all 
his courage oozing away, and w'ould depart with 
that news from St, Louis still locked in his heart. 
But he always went home angry at Sis, who had 
defeated him. 

“ I b’lieve Sis Gower is plumb crazy about her 
father,” he said angrily to Mrs. Crathie after one 
of these discomfitures, “ Sis is so good she’s good 
for nothing.” 

“ Why, lad, what ails ye ?” Ailsa would cry, 
amazed. “ Sis Gower good for naught ! Wha 
then is the best girl aboot here?” 

“ Well, it just makes me sick to hear her palav- 
ering about when that blasted rascal of a father 
comes home!” shouted David. “ Doesn’t the Bible 
say it’s wicked to believe a lie ?” 

“ Na ; it says it’s wrong to love or to make a 
lie,” said Ailsa. 

“ Sis does both,” said the rabid David ; and 


2 1 2 Ragiveed. 

finally he relieved his mind by telling Ailsa all 
about the capitalist. 

David and Ailsa were sitting on the front porch 
in the moonlight of a warm April night ; looking 
up the road, they could see that the lights were 
out in Sis Gower’s home. Sis did not like the 
expense of lamps, and she and her children went 
early to bed. 

“David,” said Ailsa, “this is no waur than I 
ha’ thought. Ye ha’ done weel to turn yon rascal 
awa’, an I’m thinkin’ his report will no move the 
faither to come hame. But ye maun no tell the 
puir lassie. Gif it were no for hope the heart 
wad break. Sis has a heavy burden, an’ a’ these 
dreams o’ a guid faither an’ guid future help her 
to bear it. Some people nourish hope on ane 
thing, some on anither. Some lassies wad be 
thinkin’ that by an’ by they wad marry, an’ ha’ a 
gran’ hame an’ hantle o’ siller in pocket. But Sis 
is no that strain ; she lives in the guid an’ well- 
doin’ o’ ithers. Whiles I think she maun ha’ early 
been taught the spirit o’ the tex’, ‘ Seekest thou 
great things for thyself? Seek them not, saith 
the Lord.’ Let Sis dream her dreams, David.” 

“ It will be just that much harder for her when 
she 'wakes,” grumbled David. “Suppose Jim 
Gower comes stumbling along here drunk some 
day, and I have to thrash him ?” 

“ That will be trouble enough when it comes, 


A Doll Stuffed with Sinvdust. 213 

lad. It will no be better for expectin’ it. An’ it 
may no come.” 

“ Girls are always chatterin’ about some non- 
sense,” said David, gloomily — “Janet about her 
cousin Ida, and Sis about her father. It makes 
me sick.” 

“Ye luik unco weel, lad, for ane wha is made 
sick by sae mony things,” suggested Ailsa. “ Aince 
I read o’ a little lass wha loved her doll weel, an’ 
took muckle comfort in it, until ane day she foun’ 
oot that the puir doll was stuffed wi’ sawdust, which 
spoiled a’ her content. Noo, gif she had no dis- 
covered the sawdust until, in the order o’ nature, 
she had outgrown the doll an’ foun’ what took its 
place, it wad ha’ been better, nae doot. It is aye 
pitifu’ to lose ane comfort wi’oot havin’ anither 
ready to fill the vacancy. But i’ this warl there 
are many wha make it their business to rin aboot 
tollin’ their neighbors that a’ their dolls are stuffed 
wi’ sawdust. It’s no weel, an’ it is unscriptural, 
to tak awa’ the first before we can establish the 
second.” 

“ I never shall understand girls,” said David. 

“ Few men do,” said Mistress Crathie, with con- 
viction. 

It was on such an early warm April afternoon 
that Mrs. Garth and Janet set out on one of their 
accustomed walks. When Janet saw which way 
their steps tended, she silently disapproved. She 


214 


Ragweed. 


preferred to walk on the granite pavements that 
led by the handsome houses of the town, where she 
could bow to acquaintances walking on the lawns 
or looking from the windows. Mrs. Garth usually 
preferred noting the glory of returning spring, 
rambling along the country roadside toward the 
little river. She had a small parcel in her hand, 
and Janet knew what it meant. A prairie schooner 
or tramp-wagon had entered the town, and Mrs. 
Garth meant to give a New Testament in good 
print and some illustrated temperance papers to 
any one in it who knew how to read. She made 
this her errand to each “ tramp-wagon ” that 
stopped in the place. 

They found the wagon drawn up on the broad 
stretch of pebble and sand beside the stream, 
where the red bridge leaped the little river with 
a double span extending beyond this rocky bot- 
tom that was often overflowed in spring tempests. 
A tongue of green grass ran down among the 
stones; three great cottonwoods spread their 
branches and lifted their mottled, parched, black 
and white trunks, and a thicket of buckberry 
bushes, just growing green, offered a little wall of 
shelter for the fire. The mules were already 
tethered to feed on the grass ; the men were lying 
smoking on the piled-up harness and wagon-seat ; 
the woman of the party was cooking supper ; and 
the children were at play in the water. 


A Doll Stuffed with Saivdust. 215 

Mrs. Garth opened conversation with the woman, 
asking how long they meant to stay. 

“ Over stock-sale day ; we want to trade off 
our mules.” 

“ That will not be until Tuesday. Have you 
been here before?” 

“ Oh yes, we’ve been knocking up and down this 
road for ten year.” 

“ I should think you’d rather settle.” 

“ I did crave to when I was first married, but 
now I don’t care. We were settled all winter in 
St. Louis, I longed for the road agin !” 

“ Can any of you read ?” 

” Wall, yes ; my brother-in-law, the red-headed 
boy over yon, reads right smart.” 

Mrs. Garth turned to interview the literary mem- 
ber of the family, and, her book and papers being 
well received, she increased her knowledge of the 
ways of trampers by conversing with the men, who 
sat up straight and laid by their pipes. 

“ We us’t to stop here a week in that pascher,” 
said the' senior man. “ It was a mighty pretty 
campin’ spot; but they’ve wire-fenced it an’ warned 
us off.” 

Mrs. Garth looked, and lo ! on the fence was a 
sign : “ Moovers, Kepe Out !” She laughed. 

“ You see, many of the town cows are kept 
there, and I suppose you wagon-people used to 
milk them,” 


2i6 


Ragweed. 


“ Well, what’s a little milk ?” grinned the man. 

“ I suppose the owners prefer to have it them- 
selves, As you have tramped so long, perhaps 
you have met a family named Beals ?” The men 
shook their tangled heads. 

“ The eldest boy was a deaf-mute, and one of 
the girls, Turk, had a badly deformed mouth.” 

” Land-a-mercy-me !” said the literary youth. 
” Yes, I remember ’em.” 

“Ain’t seen ’em for four or five years,” said 
the older man, 

“ I have reason to think they are down some- 
where along the Arkansas border. I want to 
write to that girl Turk, the one with the deformed 
mouth, and I don’t want any of the others of the 
family to see it or know of it. You may meet them 
in the course of a year or two, and I want you to 
deliver the letter whenever you do. I’ll go home 
and write the letter, and if you ” — turning to the 
red-headed lad — “ will come to my house this 
evening, I will give you the letter, and a bundle 
of clothes for yourselves. If you choose to bring 
a pail and a basket, I will give you some milk and 
provisions to help you over Sunday. I am very 
anxious to get that letter to Turk Beals. You 
won’t forget it, will you ?” 

“ No, missus, I won’t,” said the man, rising. 
“You’re a plumb lady, and know how to treat 
movin’ folks. He’ll come for the things ; and as 


A Doll Stuffed with Sazvdust. 217 

for the letter, the gal shel hev it if the Bealses are 
anywhar ’round these parts yit.” 

Mrs. Garth gave the boy her card. “ Any one 
in the town will direct you to the house,” she said 
as she and Janet went away. 

” I hate those movers !” cried Janet, fervently, 
as she and Mrs. Garth returned to the main road. 
“ I wish I might never see one again !” 

“ I find them very interesting.” 

“ They make me remember the Bealses. It may 
be interesting to you, Mrs. Garth, because you 
never had to live among such folks. You have 
always been a lady: you never had to associate 
with Bealses. It seems to me, if those Bealses 
should come back and speak to me, or any of the 
girls should ever know that I used to live with 
them, I should die !” 

“ You did not belong to them, child ; it was 
merely an accident of your life.” 

“ It was the kind of accident that goes against 
one and makes one mortified,” said Janet. “ I 
shall never get over it.” Tears were in her eyes. 

“ On the other hand, as an offset to the Bealses, 
you have your cousin Ida, the farthest possible 
from the Beals type, I should fancy;” and Mrs. 
Garth gave a cautious glance at her pretty pro- 
tege. 

“ No, she can’t make up for Bealses,” said 
Janet, flushing. 


2I8 


Rag iveed. 

“ My dear child, you are the one to make up 
for the Bealses, as you call it, by living them down. 
What you are, in yourself, -in good manners, in 
refined purity of thought, speech, and behavior, 
in education, intelligence, and usefulness — that is 
important ; by that you will be judged. We can be 
our own greatest enemies, our own best helpers. 
Each one of us for ourselves is to 

“ Ring in the nobler modes of life 
With sweeter manners, purer laws; 

Ring out false pride in place and blood. 

The civic slander and the spite; 

Ring in the love of truth and right. 

Ring in the common love of good ; 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 

The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 

Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be.” 

Mrs. Garth felt after that as if she understood 
Janet better. She saw what was at the root of 
her excessive craving after niceness, daintiness, 
and what she called “ style ” in all that she did ; 
her fear of doing anything that should seem vul- 
gar or coarse ; her intense desire after what she 
termed “ gentility.” In her lack of experience 
Janet was apt to seize upon affectation for refine- 
ment, and her idea of a nice girl was usually the 
best-dressed girl, whose father had the most money. 
“ But the child has good sense ; she will reach a 


A Doll Stuffed with Saivdiist. 


219 


proper mean some day,” said Mrs. Garth, laugh- 
ingly, to the doctor, “ and her passionate zeal to 
be what she calls a ‘ real lady ’ makes it much 
easier to teach and manage her. To say that a 
thing is vulgar or not in good taste is quite 
enough to make her avoid it.” 

When Janet went home for the long vacation, 
this growing passion for fine-ladyhood caused 
her to feel less happy and comfortable in her sur- 
roundings, and David bluffly asserted that “ she 
was getting to be too finicky for anything.” 
Secretly he was proud of Janet’s pretty face, 
sweet voice, soft, refined ways, and simple, taste- 
ful dress. He compared her with the other girls 
in the neighborhood, and found, her superior — to 
all but Sis — but he did not wish Janet herself to 
see and assert any such superiority. 

“ You act lonesome,’ lassie,” said Ailsa, one 
evening when they were all sitting on the porch 
together. ” After our wark is a’ done, why do ye 
no go aboot amang the neighbor lassies a bit ?” 

” Somehow I don’t care to,” said Janet. “ I have 
my books and my sewing, and Mrs. Garth and 
my teacher advised me to read my geography 
and grammar and history right through, all I’ve 
had for the last two years, to keep them clear in 
my mind.” 

“ Well, I’m glad I’m not kept at books !” cried 
David ; “ they’d kill me !” 


220 


Ragivced. 


“ But you might visit aboot amang the girls, 
after a’,’’ said Ailsa. 

“ Oh, I don’t want to,” said Janet, with a dis- 
satisfied air; “they all seem so tacky about 
here,” 

“ ‘ Tacky ! tacky !’ ” said Ailsa ; “ whatever does 
that word mean, lass? I’ve asked wheen times, 
and nane can tell me.” 

“ ‘Tacky ’? Oh, it means just — tacky,” said Janet, 
luminously. 

“ A fine schoolma’am you’ll make, if you can- 
not explain a thing better than that !” cried David. 

‘ Tacky ’ means to be trying after something you 
haven’t got. It means to be aiming at being a 
high-flier when you’re a low-flier. It means to 
put on brass rings, and put flowers and furbelows 
on>cotton gowns and try to make believe they are 
silk, and to be nobody and make out you’re some- 
body ; it’s — it’s — ‘ Tacky ’ is a doll all sawdust !” 

David was semi-occasionally subject to sudden 
illuminations, whereby he evidenced his Hume 
blood. 

“ Ay,” said Ailsa ; “ ‘ tacky,’ then, is cheap lace 
an’ cotton ribbons an’ brass jewelry — not bein’ 
our own honest selves.” 

“ For instance,” said David, “ Sis Gower is 
never tacky. Sis always is her plain, honest 
self.” 

“ That is true,” said Janet ; “ there’s no pretend 


22t 


A Doll Stuffed with Saivdust. 

about Sis, and it is because she is not thinking 
about herself, but about other people,” 

“ Yes,” said Ailsa ; “ I min’ our minister i’ Scot- 
ian’ said one day that ‘ unselfishness aye saved a 
body fro’ bein’ vulgar.’ An’ there is naething as 
refining as Christianity, because it is the religion 
o’ unselfishness.” 

At this moment a dark shadow that had been 
moving down the road turned in at the Hume 
gate. It was Sis. Her family were in bed and 
asleep, and, as the night was warm. Sis had come 
to refresh herself with a chat with the Humes in- 
stead of going to bed with the rest. 

Sis, as usual, was occupied about her family: 
“ Janet, have you noticed how pretty Lola is ?” 

“ Yes ; Lola is very pretty.” 

“ And she has such taste ! She is always dec- 
orating the house with bouquets, and she likes to 
keep everything neat, and is always teasing me 
to buy pretty things for the house or clothes for 
her.” 

“ I don’t think that’s very smart of her,” snapped 
David. 

” She’s so little, you know — only nine ; she 
doesn’t understand. I think Lola was made for 
a lady ; she may marry some one that’s well off 
I’d like her to be educated. — Janet, how much 
would it cost to board her in town and have her 
go to school after she is through this school ?” 


222 


Ragtvccd. 


“A good deal,” said Janet; “and as for board- 
ing-school, the cheapest is two hundred and fifty 
dollars a year,” 

Sis sighed deeply. 

David said tartly, “ Why don’t you think about 
giving yourself a chance in town or somewhere ?” 

“ Oh, hush !” said Sis. “ I’d think I was flyin’ 
if I could get Lola even a chance of six months. 
And yesterday she was teasing me to let her learn 
to play on Mis’ Jones’s parlor organ.” 

“ Janet,” said Ailsa, “ I have some business to 
talk wi’ you all, an’ the noo will do as well as ony 
time. I do not want these Hume lands ever to 
be divided, an’ a’ my Ian’ I maun leave to David. 
But you ken, Janet, you an’ Bruce baith belong 
to me as weel as David, an’ I mean do what is fair 
by you, Noo, I mean to gie you as guid an edu- 
cation as you wull hae, instead o’ gi’en you siller 
or Ian’. You sail go to the high school till you 
graduate, an’ then you maun go to the normal 
gif ye wull. An’, Janet, gif ye want music, ye 
sail hae it; an’ gif ye need ane o’ those kists o’ 
whustles ca’ed organs. I’ll buy you ane. I can 
Stan’ it. I maun do weel by your education, for 
David maun hae the Ian’. An’ as much as I lay 
oot for education for you, I wull for Bruce,” 
“You are very kind, aunt,” said Janet. “I’d 
like the high school, and a year or so at the nor- 
mal ; and if you would let me take elocution. I’d 


A Doll Stuffed ivith Sawdust. 


223 


like it; and I’ve heard Mrs. Garth say every girl 
should have French — there are so many French 
books to read, and so much French is quoted in 
books.” 

“Ye sail hae it an ye wuss, lass; but French, 
to my min’, is a gay silly tongue, wi’ na sense 
intil it, an’ nane can unnerstan’ it.” 

Janet smiled a little superior to this opinion : 
“ But I don’t want any music nor any organ. If 
there’s a thing I hate, it is a piano or an organ ! I 
wish whoever invented them had never been-born. 
Mrs. Garth says that over in town something to 
play on and the knowledge of a few notes consti- 
tute a patent of gentility. You hear the pianos 
banged from morning until night. If you go to 
a house, the first thing the girl must do is to sit 
down and play something for you, whether or not 
she knows how to play, and whether or not you 
like it ; and you have to listen and say it’s lovely. 
The girls spend lots of time and money on music, 
and then, as soon as they leave school or are done 
taking lessons, they drop it all, and it is all thrown 
away. If they are asked to play, they make a 
hundred excuses, and say they, can’t play with- 
out their notes. But they expect to be begged, 
all the same. Not a quarter of the girls who take 
lessons have any taste for it ; they do it because 
other folks do it ; and if one girl in the family gets 
music, all the rest must, to be fair to them.” 


224 


Ragtveed. 

“ Janet,” said Mistress Crathie, “ ye ha’ a glib 
tongue i’ your heid, an’ in the year’s time ye ha’ 
been yon in town ye ha’ picked up much.” 

” Dear me !” said Sis ; ” to hear you coolly refuse 
music, and music is so genteel !” 

“ Knowing how to talk well is much better,’’ 
said Janet, astutely, “ and fewer can do it.” 

“Janet, ye sail ha’ the elocution an’ the French. 
I will educate ye brawly for a teacher,” said her 
aunt ; “ an’ ye will unnerstan’, an’ David will, I gie 
ye that instead o’ Ian’.” 

“ I don’t see that you are bound to give me 
anything. Aunt Ailsa.” 

“ But I am, lass. Bluid an’ love bind me. Now, 
for Bruce it sail be the same. I’ll gie as much to 
educate Bruce as you. Then, as to yer ain pairt 
o’ the Ian’, a third pairt o’ that other half, Janet, 
when ye are of age, I want ye to let David buy 
yer share from ye, an’ the bit money will plenish 
your hoose when ye marry, an’ the Ian’ will lie 
^till wi’ David.” 

“ Yes, aunt. Only don’t talk that way : it sounds 
as if you were going to die,” cried Janet. 

“ Na, na; bein’ ready will no mak one die, lass. 
By the time I ha’ laid out on Bruce his fair share 
o’ siller in education, he will be old enough to de- 
cide whether or no he will tak his third o’ the 
ither farm in mair education. Mistress Garth says 
it will take a hantle o’ money to educate Bruce, 


A Doll Stuffed ivith Saivdiist. 225 

for he suld gae to foreign Ian’s as well as study 
here. And when he has had a’ I can gie him, 
then he will know whether he will be pleased to 
make a compaction wi’ his brither, to get his share 
o’ Ian’ paid oot in schoolin’ for him,” 

” He’ll do it,” said Sis ; “ all Bruce will want is 
learnin’.” 

“ When he is eleven, Mrs. Garth means to take 
him to town to school,” said Janet. “ She’ll be 
done with me by that time.” 

“ And by that time,” said Sis, hopefully, “ father 
will be home, and we’ll send Lola to boarding- 
school and buy her a piano !” 

Mistress Crathie leaned over and laid her hand 
on Sis Gower’s head : “ Bless you, lass, for the 
unselfish heart and the ready han’. Let me tell 
ye that in years noo far away, but daily drawin’ 
nearer, ye will sit on this poorch i’ the moonlight 
and will remember this night, when it seemed that 
a’ was for ithers, an’ naething for ye; an’ ye 
will then reflec’ that the Lord was no slack to 
gie ye your portion, an’ ye will say, ” My lines 
are fallen unto me in pleasant places. I have a 
goodly heritage !” 

They were silent. The moonligl^t fell whitely 
about them. David and Janet and Sis strained 
their eyes toward the future ; their hearts pressed 
on to take possession of it, sure that it could 
bring them only good. They were all so young, 
15 


226 Ragweed. 

and the day of youth is the glorious to-mor- 
row. 

Ailsa looked back. Her heart was with other 
years and scenes and friends. She strained her 
eyes to catch faces that were vanished from earth 
and her ears to hear voices that were silent for ever. 
She was old, and the day of age is the glorious 
yesterday. But yesterday and to-morrow in expe- 
rience are alike unsatisfactory, and only “ when I 
awake, with thy likeness I shall be satisfied.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


A FORLORN HOPE. 

“At least, not rotting like a weed, 

But, having sown some generous seed, 

Fruitful of future thought and deed.” 

M ID-JUNE, and the air sweet with the per- 
fume of the new-mown hay. The blue- 
birds are bringing out their second brood; the 
mother sits on the nest; the little father, gaily 
dressed in blue and pink, but grown more silent 
from the weight of his family cares, leads the first 
brood up and down the hedges, and instructs them 
in singing, hunting, and a sense of danger. This 
is a liberal education for a blue-bird. Colonel- 
birds are flashing above the deep-green thickets 
in swampy lands ; blackbirds, their necks clad in 
rainbows, are scolding at jays and woodpeckers 
among the trees ; gorgeous swallow-tailed butter- 
flies in black and orange with rows of dusky blue 
spots sail about the thistle-tops and the milfoil ; 
where there is a moist spot on the road-way, or a 
tiny pool between stones, the yellow colias settle 
in a little golden cloud ; stray white pieridae flit in 


228 


Ragiveed. 

shadowy places; and velvet- clad tortoise-shell 
Vanessas that have just escaped from their gold- 
burnished pupa cases drift leisurely up and down 
seeking for honey in nettle-blooms. 

Man completes such harmony of nature or 
smites it into discord. Creation’s crown, creation’s 
blot — that is man. Saul Beals, for instance, dirty 
and ragged, lying on his back, smoking a cob 
pipe and swearing at a brown mule; and Deb 
Beals, lazily washing the family tatters and hang- 
ing them on the buckberry bushes and bramble 
tangles — these are shamelessly incongruous with 
nature’s loveliness. The place is near Panther 
Valley, at the head- waters of the White River, 
where the level lands are yet broken by the re- 
treating spurs of the Ozarks. The new-born 
river ripples along its boulder bed ; elm, maple, 
walnut, and cottonwood shadow it ; squirrels leap 
around the tree-trunks ; rabbits dart off in the 
thickets ; the woodpecker hammers all day long. 

Saul has done nothing since sunrise. It is 
now sunset. The canvas-topped wagon, torn, 
dirty, patched, stands apart ; a rude tent has been 
stretched over a straw bed ; a few pails, chairs, 
cooking utensils, are scattered about the grass by 
the side of the stream ; stones have been piled to 
form a fire-place ; three mules and a broken-down 
horse feed at will, too discouraged and decrepit to 
wander far. 


A Forlorn Hope. 


229 


The Beals family feel at home in this seques- 
tered reach of bottom-land : they have been here 
for over a week. When they came here, affairs 
had reached a crisis : the wagon was broken, and 
two of the mules had entirely given out; there 
was not a dime to buy whiskey or tobacco. 
People will give away meal, meat, milk, and 
cast-off clothing, but whiskey and tobacco must 
be paid for; therefore the Beals household tar- 
ried, in order that their two working members. 
Pope and Turk, might earn some money. 

The Bealses had been in this place before. 
There was a farmer up here on the rolling prairie 
who would welcome the strong and diligent 
Pope among his haymakers ; the farmer’s wife 
was accustomed to Turk’s face and voice, and 
would be glad of her help in the house during 
haying. Meanwhile, Saul, Deb, and the four 
younger children lay at ease along the brook, like 
a colony of water-rats taking a holiday. 

That year the farmer’s wife was in a moralizing 
mood. Possibly, also, her conscience had received 
some quickening of late, and she looked upon Turk 
as more than a pair of hands, tolerated during a 
few days for low wages, 

“ Turk,” she said several times, “you ought not 
to live as you do, roaming about in a wagon. 
Tramps have no friends and no character. You 
can’t make your folks decent, but you and Pope 


230 


Rag'tvced. 


ought to get off and be decent for yourselves. 
You have the makings of respectable people in 
you. I never knew either of you to be dishonest 
or sassy, and that’s a heap more than I can say 
for any of the rest of your tribe,” 

“ Folks wouldn’t take me in on account of my 
mouth,” clacked Turk from behind the rag which 
sheer shame caused her to bind on the lower part 
of her face. 

“ I’ve heard tell doctors could cure such, and 
make you look pretty much like other folks. 
There’s schools where Pope could be taught, 
and it’s a plumb shame you two are left to grow 
up dumb and frightful when there’s help to be had.” 

Such talk stirred more actively Turk’s remin- 
iscences of Dr. and Mrs. Garth and what they 
had said to her. These memories she had never 
let die : they had been the staple of the interviews 
she had had with Pope in the language they had 
created for themselves. Turk had also held fast 
to her reading and writing. Every newspaper or 
old pamphlet or advertisement found on the way — 
and they were not few — she seized as a treasure, 
read, re-read, expounded to Pope, and then wrote 
with a bit of coal, chalk, or pencil on the margins 
or on bits of smooth chips. She had even taught 
Pope something — as the words for tree, dog, house, 
girl, man, and so on, and had showed him how to 
write them. In the quarrelsome, miserable family, 


A Forlorn Hope. 


231 


these two, fortunate in their greater misfortunes, 
lived apart from the rest Turk was beginning to 
think that she must assert herself ; but then her 
father, mother, and the other four would be banded 
against her. She and Pope were valuable hostages 
to fortune : they were the only workers ! 

On this evening, when Saul was lying on his back 
with his ragged legs crossed in the air, and Deb 
was washing, while two of the younger children 
brought fuel for the fire for supper, the seclusion 
of this their peculiar and especial retreat was 
broken by the crack of a whip, the grind of wheels, 
and the clumsy steps of wearied horses, and an- 
other prairie schooner lunged heavily into sight 
and was brought up at a cottonwood. 

The Beals faction drew together and eyed the 
intruders — two heavy, low-browed men, a tall 
woman, shrill-voiced as Deb herself, a flock of 
youngsters who escaped out of the wagon and 
took to the little pools of water like a covey of 
ducklings, and a tall, very red-headed boy. 

The horses were unharnessed; a sheet-iron 
cooking-stove was lifted down, then some chairs, 
then a couple of boards which were placed on 
crossed sticks to serve for a table ; an old ham- 
mock was slung between two trees, cooking-uten- 
sils were displayed, and the newcomers evidently 
expected the old settlers to be greatly impressed 
by their magnificence. 


232 


Ragivecd, 


“ Drat ’em !” said Deb, 

“ Ain’t this our campin’-groun’ ?” growled Saul. 

The seniors of the newcomers now advanced a 
few steps, and the Bealses did the same : there was 
to be a grand parley. At this minute a loud inar- 
ticulate noise called attention to two figures coming 
over the bank of the stream — Pope and Turk arriv- 
ing from their day’s work with a pail of buttermilk 
and a splint basket of provisions. The red-headed 
boy examined the pair closely and spoke to the 
red-headed man. The man went forward more 
briskly : 

“ Ain’t you the Bealses ?” 

“ Yes,” said Saul, sulkily ; “ an’ here’s our camp.” 

“ Well, we ain’t goin’ to hurt your camp. We’ve 
bin here afore, so it’s part ours. We’re goin’ to 
move on day after to-morrow. We see you 
’bout five year back. D’ye mind, we camped 
near some Humeses, that were not movers, but 
goin’ up from Texas to come into a fortin’?” 

- “Drat them Humeses!” said Deb with addi- 
tional venom. 

“ Our name’s Pitcher. D’ye remember ?” 

“ Yes,” said Saul ; “ how are ye, Pitcher?” 

“ We’re well, thanky ; an’, seein’ as we’ve met, 
an’ we has a fine side o’ bacon ’long with us, we 
invites you an’ Mis’ Beals to eat a bite with us.” 

“ Thanky,” said Deb ; “ Pll bring a loaf” 

“ Have ye any whiskey ?” asked Saul, anxiously. 


A Forlorn Hope. 


233 


“ No, we ain’t : we’re out. We’ve got some tea.” 

” Well, I’ve got what will put us a drop round 
in the tea, just to stiffen it,” said Saul. 

Upon this great cordiality developed. A fire 
was built; Mrs. Pitcher cut liberal bacon and put 
it in the pan on the coals, and then brewed tea in 
a tin pail. Deb brought her two largest cups, her 
loaf, and a knife. Then the party sat down by the 
dying fire. 

The juniors knew that they were to wait. Deb 
and Saul sat on one side of the fire. Mistress 
Pitcher, her husband, and her brother on the other. 
Deb cut slices from her loaf and skillfully tossed 
them through the smoke to the Pitchers, who 
caught them as they came. Mrs. Pitcher speared 
slices of bacon on her long fork and held them 
out across the fire to her guests, who took them 
off the tines and laid them on their rounds of 
bread in lieu of plates. Mr. Pitcher poured the 
black liquid called tea into cups, scooping with 
his fingers some moist brown sugar from a tin 
box for each cup ; then Saul reached across the 
fire and added the proper ” stiffening,” and the 
meal went on. 

The younger children of both factions played 
in the stream. Pope and Turk remained on the 
high bank, and the red-headed boy joined him- 
self to them. 

“Is your name Turk?” 


234 


Ragweed. 


“ Yes,” clacked Turk from behind her apron. 

” Las’ spring a lady give me a letter for you to 
hand over whenever I see you — April it was. 
I’ve got it here in my shirt-pocket. She give me 
this striped shirt and these trousers and a whole 
raft of things, and said I wasn’t to let none of 
the rest see the letter or know ’bout it. Reckon 
that’s why Job asked your folks to tea, so’s I 
could give you the letter, for the lady spoke 
to us pleasant and paid us liberal. Anybody 
lookin’ ?” 

“ No,” said Turk, eagerly; “ give it to me.” 

“ Yere it is. You’d better slide off behind the 
bank an’ read it while they’re eatin’.” 

Turk and her letter disappeared. 

Mrs. Garth had written very plainly; 

” My poor Turk : 

“You are now past twelve, and Pope is seven- 
teen. It is wrong for you to rove about idle and 
ignorant. Your parents have no right to keep 
you as they do. Pope ought to be in the school 
for the dumb. You ought to have your lip cured 
and then learn to make an honest living. If you 
can get here, we will help you. If you go to the 
court in any town, I 'think the judge would say 
that you are old enough to choose for yourselves. 
Do try to leave your people, and do better than 
they have done. Mrs. Garth.” 


A Forlorn Hope. 


235 


Turk read the short plain words several times. 
Then she rose up with a strong light in her dark- 
blue eyes. She had always, since she left Ailsa, 
said that prayer asking God to help her and Pope. 
She had not forgotten that Ailsa had said that 
sometimes God helps by givihg-us good sense to 
help ourselves. 

Presently one of the Beals children, playing in 
the brook, shouted, “ Mam ! Turk’s gone to the 
farm to get some ’taters !” and Turk was running 
back along the fields to the farm-house. 

The good wife had just put by the evening’s 
milk, and was standing on the porch wiping her 
round red arms on her check apron. 

“ There’s another tramp-wagon down on the 
creek,” said Turk. 

“ Land save us !” said the woman angrily ; 
“ wish there was a law agin the hull lot of ’em.” 

“So do I,” said Turk. “One of the boys 
brought me a letter from a lady. I want you to 
read it. See, it’s directed to me — ‘Turk Beals, 
on a prairie schooner.’ She’s the lady I told you 
of, who wanted to cure me an’ put Pope to 
school.” 

The dame read the letter : “ That’s got sense in 
it. Ain’t it what I told you ?” 

“ Yes, it is ; and do you know what Pm going 
to do? Pm going to run away — me and Pope.” 

“ Sakes ! Do you mean it ? When ?” 


236 


Ragzueed. 


“ I means it, and I’m goin’ to-morrow mornin’ 
early. You see, we always start for here while 
the rest of ’em is asleep, and they don’t look for 
us back till night, so we’ll get more’n a day’s start 
if we go at three ; and when they miss us, it will 
be night, and they won’t know where to follow us, 
any way.” 

“ Well, you are right level-headed, Turk; and 
let me tell you, if you get your face cured, and 
learn to work, and leave Pope in school, and want 
to come back to me, I won’t mind givin’ you a 
dollar a week the year round.” 

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Turk to this mu- 
nificent offer. “ We can’t go without money, and 
Pope and I have a right to what we’ve earned, 
haven’t we? Would you pay us?” 

“ I’ll tell you,” said the good woman, entering 
into the plan with spirit, seeing a way of helping 
Turk, whom she liked, and also of saving some 
of those dollars which seemed so small to her 
when she took them in, and so very large when 
she paid them out. “See here, Turk. Don’t 
tell me just which way you’re goin’, and start in 
the mornin’ before I see you, so when your folks 
come to ask for you I can say I haven’t seen you 
since to-day, and paid you to-night, and don’t 
know where you are. Now, you can’t start off 
on such a long trip with no clothes and no food, 
and food and clothes will be as good to you as 


A Forlorn Hope. 


' 2-17 


money. I’ll make up a sack of bread an’ meat an’ 
boiled eggs and snaps for you, and some coffee 
and a tin pail ; and I’ll put up in another sack 
some shirts for Pope, and a dress of Mirandy’s 
and a new sunbonnet and some aprons for you. 
If you look decent on the road, you’ll be 
less likely to be meddled with. And what money 
is due you two, over and above the things. I’ll 
put in a purse for you. And, if I were you, to- 
morrow afternoon I’d strike the railroad, and 
ride a matter of twenty mile or so, to be sure 
your folks can’t ketch up with you. Get a good 
sleep and set off early. Do you know which way 
is north ?” 

“ Oh yes,” said Turk ; “ I know the roads. We 
must go north a little, and the rest east.” 

“ Then good-bye, child ; and if ever you do get 
your face cured, and Pope gets to school, and 
you are doing' well, try to write me a letter, for 
I’d love to hear from you — I would, truly.” 

Turk asked for a few potatoes to cover her 
visit, and returned to camp, where the juniors 
were already eating supper. She and Pope ate 
heartily, and Turk put two large corn-pones in 
her pocket, to eat when they made their early 
start. Turk and Pope had built two little booths 
on the bank, and had piled up in each a bed of 
leaves. It was their habit to keep as much apart 
as possible from the rest of their family, and no 


238 


Ragiveed. 


one cared. When a family constantly denomi- 
nates two of its members as “ Dummy ” and 
“ Ugly Mouth ” there is apt to be a schism. 

Withdrawn to their bowers, Turk and Pope sat 
on the grass before them. This was the time 
when Turk said her prayer, Pope, with eyes in- 
tent, following the motions with which she tried 
to explain her meaning. On this night, before 
the prayer, she showed Pope the letter and ex- 
plained her plan. 

The great eyes of the dumb boy flamed and 
hope rose up in his heart. He and Turk had in 
their way talked about that school and its possi- 
bilities — how he could be well clad, clean, taught, 
learn a trade, and become a decent citizen. And 
what ! Now should they strike out for fortune ? 
The thought was rapture. And Turk ? — her face 
made like other faces, so that she would no more 
crouch in shadows or bind her apron over her 
pitiable deformity? All that in a letter? 

Turk made him understand about the flight in 
the early dawn, and the clothes and food and 
money to be found on the farm-house porch. 

When, finally, Turk, flung on her heap of 
leaves, was sound asleep. Pope could not sleep 
for the hope and joy that surged through his 
soul. Finally he dozed, woke again, dozed, and 
so by snatches, until he went outside his bower 
and knew that the time had come. The moon 


A Forlorn Hope. 


239 


was setting; the stars were growing pale; around 
the horizon there was a rim of grayish pink ; along 
the course of the creek a faint white mist slowly 
arose ; the fire had smouldered out ; the tramp- 
wagons looked white and clean in the dim light ; 
the mules were lying about, dark hulks on the 
plots of grass ; the trampers were all asleep. 

Pope reached into his sister’s hut and pulled 
her bare foot. Turk rose and came out : there 
was no matutinal ceremony of dressing, as there 
had been no evening task of undressing. Pope 
and Turk looked at each other, stretched their 
arms and yawned, ran their fingers through their 
hair, took a good shake to rid themselves of 
clinging leaves, and their toilet was made. They 
took hold of hands and ran across the pasture- 
lot. Their pilgrimage was begun. 

On the farm-house porch they found two small 
flour-sacks, each well filled. Pope slung them 
over his shoulders ; they then took a big drink at 
the pump and set off due north. Turk had in her 
hand the corn-pone left over from supper. She 
gave Pope his share, and they went on, eating. 

They walked slowly, steadily. They had been 
tramps all their life, and they knew how to 
economize exertion. They made no spurts, they 
uttered no sounds; on they went. Pope bent a 
little under his load of bags, Turk faithfully fol- 
lowing in his steps. 


240 


Ragivced. 


After six hours’ tramp they were tired and hun- 
gry. It was nearly ten o’clock, and they were 
entering a piece of woodland where was a little 
brook. Pope proposed to rest. They must open 
their bundles, breakfast, sleep, then go on. He 
built a fire, and Turk put on the pail of water 
to boil for coffee. In the bag of provisions she 
found a knife, two little tin cups, and a flat tin lid 
to serve as plate or frying-pan. There was a piece 
of boiled salt pork, a pound or two of raw bacon, 
a little bag of coffee and one of sugar, some bis- 
cuits, a dozen hard ginger-snaps, and three pounds 
of corn-meal. They considered the provision mu- 
nificent. 

Then they opened the other bag : a pair of blue- 
jeans trowsers and two check shirts for Pope ; a 
piece of soap, a comb, and a brown towel ; three 
aprons, a dress, and a new sunbonnet for Turk, 
and a suit of under-clothes. What splendor ! 

Finally, in the purse were two dollars. The good 
woman had been as liberal as she could. Pope and 
Turk had each worked eight days, but she thought 
those clothes were worth a deal. So did they. 

Turk explained to Pope that if they could strike 
the railroad, they would better invest fifty cents in 
a ride, to get on the faster. The other dollar and 
fifty cents must serve to buy food on their trip 
when what they had was gone. 

The coffee being made, they feasted lavishly on 


A Forlorn Hope. 241 

cold pork, biscuits, and ginger-snaps, and then 
found a shady place -for a sleep. 

Turk awoke first. It was high noon. She 
filled her pail with water, and, adjourning to the 
thicket, took a good washing with soap — an un- 
usual luxury — combed and washed and braided 
her hair, and put on her clean clothes. At the 
end of an hour she was a very tidy-looking girl, 
and she went and punched Pope vigorously, that 
he might awake and behold her glory. 

As toilets were in order, Pope found a deep 
place in the stream, wasted a deal of soap, made 
himself very clean, put on his new clothes, and 
combed his hair artistically in a flat mat all around 
his head. Then, each munching a biscuit, they 
walked on until five o’clock, when they boarded a 
railroad train, and Turk, presenting a half dollar 
to the conductor, asked thickly for “ twenty-five 
cents worth of ride apiece.” The conductor 
laughed and obligingly carried them twenty miles. 
P'rom seven until nine the pair marched stolidly 
along the road-side, and then, finding an aban- 
doned barn, they took it for night-quarters. Here 
•Turk suggested that, in order to keep their new 
garments nice and be like folks, they should sleep 
in their old clothes, and wash their faces and comb 
their hair when they first arose. As soon as this 
was arranged they felt as if they had begun their 
life as respectable citizens. 

16 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A THANKSGIVING. 

“Our common mother rests and sings 

Like Ruth amid her garnered sheaves; 

Her lap is full of goodly things, 

Her brow is bright with autumn leaves.” 

I N those bright summer days, when the wheat 
was ripe for harvesting, and along immense 
smooth fields the corn waved its green sabres in 
the sun, two dusty, slow-plodding, often very warm 
and weary figures, a brawny lad and a lithe little 
girl, passed steadily on. One of the white bags 
had been emptied long ago; it served Turk now 
for a towel. Pope carried the other bag over his 
shoulder or under his arm. Both went barefoot- 
ed; usually Pope marched first and Turk followed 
him, but when they were very tired and discour- 
aged Turk came beside her brother, and they 
moved on holding hands. 

For this was a weary, long journey, and the late 
June suns beat down fiercely, and very often the 
travelers lost their way. 

When Turk in her imperfect speech asked the 

242 


A Thanksgiving. 


243 


direction of the town to which they were bound, 
people often failed to understand her, or they did 
not know of the town at all, or, as over half the 
breadth of the State lay between, they did not 
know which road she should take, so passed on, 
not replying, or answering but vaguely. 

In the early morning, two figures refreshed 
by sleep in barns or empty log houses or under 
hay- ricks, faces washed, clothes shaken^ut, hair 
combed, something of cheer and courage restored, 
moving on hopefully. At noon the two figures, 
warm and dusty and grown laggard with the heat, 
sitting to rest under a tree or stack or in a bit of 
woodland, eating the stale loaf and the morsel 
of cheese bought at the store they have passed, 
counting their dimes and wondering how they 
dwindle, and looking at each other and marveling 
that the way is so hard and so long. At sun- 
set, two slow, dark figures, their backs toward the 
glowing west, keeping pace with their shadows 
falling sidelong curiously foreshortened ; always 
moving resolutely the way they have chosen, but 
doubting, in spite of the letter which Turk carries 
in her pocket, whether they will be well received. 
At twilight the swallows are slipping into their 
nests, the owls are beginning to cry out of the 
wood, the bats wheel, the crickets sing shrilly, 
the night-hawks sweep upward, then settle with a 
scream, the buzzards are huge dark shadows on the 


244 


Ragweed. 


tree-tops, while these two dark figures are looking 
for some empty corn-rack or barn or tobacco dry- 
ing-house or sheep-shed wherein to sleep. At 
night sometimes, when the moon is up and when 
the day has been so very hot that they had to pass 
hours hidden under the shade of the trees by 
some failing stream, these two dark figures travel 
on in the cool silver half-light, slipping across the 
bright spaces like lost shadows, drifting into cir- 
cles of darkness and anon coming forth again, 
and still laboring on. 

These night journeys, however, soon came to 
an end. The two were once attacked by a big, 
persistent bull-dog whom Pope had much ado to 
defeat with a fence-rail ; on another night walk they 
were met by a man in the quarrelsome drunken 
stage, who took great exception to Pope’s refusal 
to speak to him, 

“ He’s dumb !” shrieked Turk. 

“ Pll teach him to be dumb to me !” quoth 
the belligerent. But Pope understood this lan- 
guage of fists ; he had been brought up in wars 
and rumors of wars, and, as the stranger wanted a 
fight. Pope was nothing loath; he was given to 
thoroughness in work, and he polished off his 
antagonist vigorously. But, like all deaf mutes. 
Pope was capable of violence : he could not hear 
the cries of his victim, and sympathy and contri- 
tion are oftenest reached by “ ear-gate.” Turk had 


A Thanksgiving. 


245 


much ado to tear him away from his enemy, whom 
they left bemoaning himself under the shadow of 
a fence. 

“We’ll get into trouble and be ’rested,” said 
Turk to herself, and concluded that by night they 
would better sleep, and travel only by day. 

Finally one morning when Turk was discour- 
aged and wondering how much farther they had 
to go, and whether they were wholly out of their 
course, they came to a district school-house empty 
for vacation, but the door stood open. Turk be- 
thought herself that if she could find an atlas in 
one of the desks, she might by means of a large 
map of Missouri trace out her path with some 
definiteness ; at least she could make a list of the 
larger towns and villages, and by asking her way 
from one -to the other could the better pursue her 
journey. 

They entered. Pope lay down in the vestibule 
like a big dog. Turk, after searching several desks, 
found an atlas, a leaf of a copy-book, a pen, and a 
bottle with ink. She seated herself at a desk and 
then fell into a meditation. “ How lovely this is ! 
A quiet school-room, books, lessons ! How nice 
it would be, if my face was straight like folks’, 
to be going to school and learning reg’lar !” She 
fancied the seats full of busy boys and girls, the 
teacher in his place, and herself — always with a 
proper face — the best of all the pupils in the 


246 


Ragiveed. 


school. O dream of glory! Turk had made no 
poor use of her opportunities during the time, 
perhaps three years in all, that she had attended 
school. She had not found it pleasant to play 
with other children, and she had studied right 
through recess and noon-time. Promotions had 
fallen thick and fast upon poor Turk. 

But come, she mu.st look up her route. She 
had grown rusty in the ways of geography, and 
she was long in finding Missouri, and longer still 
in finding where she had started from. How- 
ever, she knew that Springfield was their nearest 
city in their camp on the White River, and finally 
she found two towns through which they had 
passed, and she stuck a pin in one, so that it 
might not escape her while she looked for that 
blessed town which held help for them. 

This school-house was used also as a church 
by the farmers of the district, and a theological 
student on a visit to his aunt near by was holding 
a series of evening meetings there. As there was 
no one else to assume the duty, he was in the habit 
of coming during the morning to the school-room 
to see that all was in decent order for the even- 
ing. Coming this morning, he found a burly lad 
lying with closed eyes in the vestibule. The lad 
made no reply when addressed, but as soon as 
the young preacher stepped upon the porch the 
youth shook himself, sat up, and silently gazed 


A Thanksgiving. 247 

from under heavy brows with the half-alarmed, 
half-defiant look of some disturbed wild animal. 

Passing within, he saw a girl very busy at a 
desk. 

“ Little woman,” said the student pleasantly, 
“ you are either very early for service or very late 
at school.” 

• As he spoke, the girl turned a sadly marred face 
which she promptly covered with her apron, while 
tears filled her eyes. 

“ I’m looking for places on the map,” clat- 
tered Turk. “ I’ve kind of lost my way, me an’ 
Pope.” 

“Yes? Let me see if I can help you. Where 
did you come from ?” 

“ Near Springfield.” 

“ That is a long distance. Do you want to get 
back there ?” 

“ No, I want to go to — oh, here it is ! I’ve 
found it !” and she joyfully stuck another pin, lest 
the desired town should disappear. 

“You have far to go,” said the young man, 
taking a seat by her side. “What is this? You 
are making an itinerary ? That is good. Let me 
help you. See, now, Springfield, and here’s 
your journey’s end; and you are about here, and 
these are the towns you must pass through. 
See ?” — and he marked down village after village 
with plainly printed names — “and this is your 


248 


Ragweed. 


course. You are a little too far north. You go 
so and so and so and so. Are you alone ?” 

“ No ; Pope is my brother. He’s a dummy, and 
I’m going to put him in the school where they 
teach them, and I’m going to have my face made 
right. See, here’s her letter.” She gave him Mrs. 
Garth’s worn, soiled letter. 

” Why, this is a very good plan, and you have 
true courage and real grit. You’ll get on, I am 
sure. You have sixty-eight miles, more or less, 
to go yet. Have you any money ?” 

“Twenty-five cents now,. in Pope’s pocket.” 

“ Well, there’s a quarter to put in your pocket. 
And when Pope is in school and your face has 
been mended, what then ?” 

“ I’m going to go to work for somebody, and 
I’ll do my best, and work awful hard, and save 
up my money till there’s ’nuff to furnish a home, 
three rooms. How long do they keep the dum- 
mies in that there school to teach ’em all they 
can, and a trade ?” 

“ Eight years.” 

“Then Pope will be twenty-five and I’ll be 
twenty. I can earn a lot in eight years. I don’t 
know which trade Pope will take, but when he’s 
learned it and is out he’ll work at his trade, and 
we’ll live together, and I’ll take in some work, 
and we’ll do real well, and be respectable people, 
me an’ Pope — don’t you think so ?” 


A Thanksgiving. 


249 


“ I am sure of it. See, here are two or three 
little books for you. Can you carry them ?” 

“ Oh, yes. We’ve got a Testament. Mrs. Garth 
gave it to me ; it is in Pope’s pocket.” 

” It is nearly noon. If you’ll come over to my 
aunt’s with me, you two shall have a good din- 
ner.” 

“ I don’t like to, please,” said Turk, tears roll- 
ing over, “ I look too ugly. People don’t like to 
see me, and I can’t keep my apron over my face 
while I eat.” 

“ Then come along down by the spring to a 
shady place, and I will bring you a nice dinner 
and something to carry along with you for supper 
and breakfast.” 

Pope, being made aware of this arrangement, 
became friendly. Desiring to show what he 
could do, he went to the blackboard and wrote : 
” Hen,” and “ Boy,” 

” I taught him,” said Turk, proudly. “ Pope is 
very smart.” 

Their new friend brought them a lavish dinner 
— meat, vegetables, pie, milk. Then he packed a 
little splint basket with buttered bread, sausages, 
ginger-cake, and cold biscuit. “ I am going to see 
a sick man,” he said, ” and I might as well go to- 
day as to-morrow, and I can take you five miles 
along your road.” 

So they departed in great state, riding in a sur- 


250 


Ragweed. 


rey. That was the gala day of the whole trip. 
The undertaking had been pronounced feasible 
and reasonable ; they had been helped and com- 
forted, and had partaken of what Turk called 
“ a right square meal.” 

Even with that map they missed their way twice, 
and there were several rainy days when they had 
to tarry in an empty house. That delay exhaust- 
ed Turk’s twenty-five-cent piece. She spent it for 
milk, meal, and potatoes. A Missouri farmer’s 
wife seldom takes pay for a little food, but Turk 
fell in with an exception to this rule, who said 
to herself that “ if any money was going from 
trampers, she might as well have it as anybody, 
an’ they’d be less likely to come agin.” 

Finally, almost at the end of July, the journey 
ended. It ended late at night, after a very hot day, 
when the clouds hung low at sunset, and lightning 
played along the piled-up masses and thunder 
pealed far off. 

Pope and Turk hurried on. They could not 
wait, now that the end was so near. It was dark, 
very dark, and on they went. When they reached 
the town the court-house clock pealed out twelve. 
Those last four miles had taken so long ! 

They opened Dr. Garth’s gate, but all the house 
was dark. Of course it would not do to wake up 
respectable people at midnight for little vagrants, 
but now the storm was breaking with fury. There 


A Thanksgiving. 


251 


was the deep front portico. They would be safe 
there, and dry in the embrasure of the big door. 
To sit down anywhere would be such a luxury ! 
They were fainting with fatigue and excitement, 
and now a terrible storm was raging — wind, thun- 
der, lightning, and a deluge of rain. Happily it 
came from the north, and the house faced south- 
east. 

Pope seated himself on the doorstep, and Turk 
crouched on the big mat between his kne*es and 
leaned her head back against him ; his arms held 
the faithful, valiant child fast 

And so they fell asleep. They did not know 
when the storm ceased and the stars came out in 
a blue sky; they did not know when morning 
broke in pink and primrose along the east, and 
the stars — great, trembling, luminous jewels — 
melted back into the blue, and the chorus of the 
birds awoke, and the sleepy flowers held up their 
heads and shook off the rain-drops. The sun- 
shine smote the pale, worn, weary faces of the 
children, and they did not know it. 

Dr. Garth rose early, anxious to know if his 
grounds had suffered damage. He opened his 
front door. There slept, sitting nearly erect, a 
dark, travel-stained lad, and against his knees a 
little girl, her sunbonnet fallen from her head, long 
lashes lying beneath a straight clear brow ; even in 
sleep, by the long habit of her humiliation, her 


252 


Ragivecd. 


arm laid jealously across her mouth. He knew 
them, Pope and Turk, and he went to call his wife 
while they still slept on. 

A week after that, a circle of King’s Daughters 
accompanied to the railway station a very clean 
and cheerful little girl in a blue gingham dress, a 
straw hat with a blue ribbon on it, a veil tied about 
the lower part of her face, and a linen traveling- 
roll on her arm. This was Turk, en route for St. 
Louis,* “to be mended.” 

■ Pope, greatly excited by Turk’s solitary depart- 
ure, took some comfort in seeing her seated in 
style in a car, her bag by her side and a picture 
paper in her hand. Until the car swept around 
the curve and into the cutting Turk looked from 
the window, and Pope’s big anxious eyes fol- 
lowed her. Then Dr. Garth motioned him into 
the buggy with yellow wheels, and they drove 
to the outskirts of the town, where, surrounded 
by a lawn shaded by trees, six huge buildings 
offered aid and comfort to deaf mutes. Pope 
was handed over to the superintendent, and the 
next day might have been seen marching proudly 
about in a gray uniform braided with black, his 
hair closely cut, his life as a pupil begun. 

The summer had passed, the harvest was end- 
ed, and Pope and Turk had been socially saved — 
caught out of that deadly stream of trampers, and 
lifted into the possibilities of civilized life. The 


A Thanksgiving. 253 

labors of the autumn had rounded up the year, 
and Thanksgiving day was at hand. 

“ It has been a by ordinar good year,” said Aunt 
Ailsa. ‘‘We a’ o’ ushae much to gie thanks for. 
There’s nane o’ they new-warld ways I like better 
than havin’ a Thanksgivin’ day.” 

‘‘ Don’t you have one in Scotland ?” demanded 
Bruce. 

‘‘ Na, laddie, unless ane is proclaimed for some 
extraordinary occasion. We hae days o’ humilia- 
tion an’ days o’ prayer an’ fastin’, an’ I’ll no say 
they’re not needed an’ serviceable, for we ha’ 
mickle need^to lament our sins. But we’re a’ too 
apt to forget praisin’ whiles we are instant in 
prayin’. The apostle yokes thanksgivin’ wi’ sup- 
plication, but we’re a’ too ready to gie thanks- 
givin’ the go-by, an’ be lamentin’ our lack o’ this, 
that, an’ the ither. It is a true observe that we are 
aye readier at fault-findin’ than thankin’.” 

‘‘ Well, Aunt Ailsa,” said David, ‘‘ let us praise 
up to the top notch this year, with a big turkey 
and all the trimmings. Sikey Gower will be at 
Mis’ Jonsing’s, and Mis’ Gage has asked Lola to 
eat with her; let’s us ask Sis and Pam and Miss; 
and Janet is coming, and we’ll have Turk and Pope 
too. I reckon they’ve about forgotten that baby 
that Deb left us as her parting blessing. He’s 
their own brother, and they’d better see him.” 

“ Aye,” said Ailsa, ‘‘ we’ll have a party ; and the 


^54 


Ragweed. 


day before Thanksgivin’, David, you take the light 
wagon to town, and bring Pope an’ Janet an’ Turk, 
and carry a dressed turkey and a pair o’ ducks to 
Mrs. Garth, and buy spices and raisins for a plum 
pudding, and get the cranberries, an’ take Bruce 
in for his new winter suit, and let Janet hae the 
money to get her a new hat Ye’ll hae the bank- 
buik made oop, an’ see the carpenter aboot mair 
shed-room for the sheep.” 

All the day that David was in town on these 
errands, Ailsa and Sis with joyful faces and happy 
continuous speech occupied the kitchen at the 
“ stage-house,” now generally known as “ Cra- 
thie Farm.” They stuffed a turkey and a pair 
of chickens, made pumpkin pie and light bread, 
boiled a noble piece of beef, and sorted out 
onions, turnips, and sweet potatoes for the feast 
next day. 

Finally the shelves in the pantry were well 
filled. Ailsa put on her best black gown, her 
best cap, and a white apron and neckerchief Sis 
caught Master Nathan Barber for a final washing 
and brushing, and put on him his first breeches, 
which she had made over from a pair outgrown 
by Bruce. The yellow dog lay somnolent by the 
fire, and Nathan Barber sat beside him winkin" 

o 

at the blaze. 

Sis rebraided her hair, put on her Sunday 
gown, brought over for the occasion, ^and for the 


A Thanksgiving. 255 

first time a collar of some old country lace, a gift 
from Ailsa. Then there came a roll of wheels, a 
loud “ Whoa !” and an irruption into the kitchen 
as of Huns, Goths, and Vandals — but, after all, it 
was only Janet, Bruce, Turk, Pope, and David, 
cold, jolly, all with their arms full, all laughing 
and talking at once — all but Pope : he laughed the 
loud, unmodulated laugh of the mute, and waved 
his arms on high, talking with his fingers, so 
proud of his uniform and of what he knew ! 

Ailsa held Turk at arm’s length : “ Let me ha’ 
a guid glint at ye, lassie, an’ see what a’ has been 
done for ye. Weel, praise the Lord, wha has 
gi’en sic power unto men ! They ha’ made a guid 
job o’ your mou’, for sure. Thae twa scars are 
nane so bad, an’ will grow less an’ less ; an’ the 
teeth are brought in place, an’ twa new anes put 
in, an’ ye can speak conformably, an’ ye ha’ na 
need the noo to cover your face ! Praise the guid- 
ness o’ the Lord, wha said, ‘ When thy faither an’ 
thy mither forsake thee, then the Lord will tak’ 
thee oop.’ Aye, he has said, ‘ Yea, they may for- 
get, yet will not I forget thee.’ Hoo happy an’ 
weel ye luik, lassie ! An’ hoo lang were ye in 
Saint Louis ?” 

“ Nearly two months. I had waited so long, 
you know, and my face was so bad. But every- 
body was very kind to me. I came back the 
twentieth of September, and Mrs. Garth has found 


256 Ragiveed. 

me a place where I work for my board and go 
to school. Mrs. Garth clothes me, and after I 
go to school for two years, then I’m going to live 
with Mrs. Garth as chambermaid and seamstress, 
and get nine dollars a month.” 

“ Aye, ye are weel done for ! An’ do ye see the 
lad bairn yon ?” 

“ Yes. Is that our baby ?” Turk was down on 
her knees by him. She looked up at Ailsa through 
tears : “ He don’t look like a Beals. Oh, how good 
you have been to him !” 

“ His name is Nathan Barber,” said Aunt. 
Ailsa. 

Turk sprang to her feet: “Not Beals! Sup- 
pose we all change our name to Barber ? Beals 
was only a borrowed name, anyway ! I will tell 
Pope. I think we’ll all be Barbers.” She lifted 
up Nathan, proudly smiling in the glory of his 
new breeches, and explained him to Pope. She 
also explained that hereafter they would all be 
Barbers, “ not Bealses.” 

Janet danced with joy, this was so amusing. 
She placed the three “ Barbers ” in chairs, she 
led up the various members of the family and in- 
troduced them, and she said that the Barbers 
were very nice people from Texas, and she hoped 
they would always live in that neighborhood. 

“ Lassie, ha’ done wi’ your daffin’, an’ coom to 
supper,” cried Ailsa. “ Here is a gran’ plate o’ 


A Thafiksgiving. 257 

pork-steak wi’ potatoes an’ apple sauce a’ coolin’ 
whiles ye are playin’ afif your pranks !” 

“All the same, the Bealses are dead and 
buried !” cried Janet. 

17 

I 


CHAPTER XVII. 


HOW FATHER CAME HOME. 

Upon the midnight battle-ground 
The spectral camp is seen, 

And with a sorrowful deep sound 
Flows the river of life between.” 



HEN Janet Hume was graduated at the 


V V high school she was a tall, pretty, pleasing 
girl of seventeen. She stood at the head of her 
class, and the school principal stated with pride 
that Janet had made the best record and taken 
the highest grades that had ever been given in 
the school. This was not at all because Janet 
was a genius — merely because Mrs. Garth had 
held her to the apostolic rule, “ This one thing 
I do.” Nothing had been allowed to tax ^her 
strength, divert her thoughts, or occupy her time 
to the detriment of her work. 

“ What you want,” Mrs. Garth had said, “ is 
not merely to get through the course — to escape 
being turned back for a year ; you are to be thor- 
ough in it all. Read in the line of your studies, 
and gather a large amount of information entirely 
beyond school-work in each branch pursued.” 


258 


How Father Came Home. 259 

Held to these lines, Janet had the satisfaction 
of being a great credit to herself and to her 
friends. 

Sis Gower, sitting among the audience which 
admired the graduates, felt that nothing could 
surpass the honor, beauty, and happiness of Janet, 
and turned over in her mind plan after plan for 
securing equal benefits for the pretty Lola who 
was seated at her side. 

Lola, on her part, would have been glad enough 
of the white gown, flowers, and fan ; she would 
have enjoyed being the girl who played the piano 
and wore a pair of lovely white-kid slippers. She 
secretly thought that “ Janet must have had a hor- 
rid time ” studying so hard, and that Mrs. Garth 
had been very strict in refusing to allow her to 
go to parties or receive evening callers ; but then, 
Lola said to herself, “anything was better than 
living ’way out in the country, and being ‘ tacky,’ 
and never wearing real handsome clothes.’’ 

“ Sis,’’ said Lola, fretfully, that evening, “ won’t 
you fix it so I can go to school in town and learn 
music and wear nice clothes ? I hate it out here ! 
Can’t you earn enough money for it ?’’ 

“I’ll try just as hard as 5 ver I can, Lola,’’ said 
Sis, patiently. “ I am laying up a little bit of 
money now, and I’ll work hard every day of my 
life. I’m sure you’d be welcome to all I had. 
You are not old enough to go yet. You have 


26 o 


Ragweed. 


not learned all they teach here. Janet was thir- 
teen when she went.” 

“I just hate this mean little school out here! 
I hate this little common house ! I want to be 
a lady. I don’t see why Mrs. Garth couldn’t have 
promised to take me to town, now Janet is done. 
Instead, she goes and takes Bruce Hume, and he 
is a year younger than I am. He’ll only be going 
on for eleven when he begins. I’m eleven past.” 

“ But Bruce is a great genius, they say, and his 
aunt and David are going to lay out ever so much 
money on him for college. You know, we haven’t 
money like that, Lola dear ; but if you’ll be patient, 
father is sure to come home with plenty, and I’ll 
see that you have everything that you want.” 

“ I don’t believe father’ll ever come. No one 
e.xpects him but you. I wish you’d ask Mrs. 
Garth to take me — she’s rich.” 

“ That is a thing I will never do,” said Sis, 
firmly. “ I will work as hard as ever I can for 
you all, but I will not beg. Mrs. Garth would not 
have taken Janet, only that Janet wanted to really 
make use of what she learned, and be a teacher. 
You couldn’t be a teacher, Lola: you hate your 
lessons and are not at^the head of your class.” 

” I don’t care if I’m not, Sis. I’d play music if 
I had a chance.” 

” Mrs. Garth certainly wouldn’t stand any one 
practicing in her house: she can’t bear it.” 


How Father Came Home. 261 

“ Anyway,” said Lola, contumaciously, “ you 
needn’t think I mean to stay here and work at 
sewing and house-cleaning and killing, and wear 
myself all out, and never be young and have a 
good time, for I won’t. I’ll run away first!” 

Then Lola went out of doors and sulked, and 
Sis cried silently by her sewing-machine, so that 
for a little time she could not see what she was 
doing. She did not blame Lola. In her humble, 
good, patient heart she said, ” Of course this life 
looks very dull and hopeless to a bright, pretty 
child. Oh ! if father would only come home and 
make all right I” 

While Lola was thus making Sis uncomfort- 
able Janet was having a very nice time in town. 
Mrs. Garth had presented her with a pretty gray 
summer silk gown, and had thrown open her 
house for the calls of all the young graduate’s 
friends. Turk had just finished up what school- 
ing she was to have, and had come to Mrs. Garth’s 
to be chamber-maid and seamstress, and she, aided 
by two other maids, carried around trays of cake 
and ices and sherbet. The scars were not now 
very visible on Turk’s honest, healthy, cheerful 
face, and Deb Beals would never have recognized 
her de.spised daughter in this brisk, pleasant-man- 
nered girl in a “ gown of sprinkled pink,” with a 
white apron trimmed with wide lace wrought by 
her own ingenious fingers. 


262 


Ragweed. 


Among the callers was the principal of the town 
schools. “ I shall miss you, Janet,” he said ; “ you 
have been very exemplary, and we are all proud 
of you. I know much of your method is due to 
Mrs. Garth’s firmness and judgment, but not all 
girls would have realized the worth of such care, 
and so cheerfully have followed rules. Who knows 
how to obey well will rule well. You are going 
to the normal in September. After a year there 
you can have one of our schools in the grammar 
grade.” 

“ I shall like that !” cried Janet. “ David and 
Aunt Ailsa have been very liberal to me, and now 
it is the turn of Bruce. How delighted I shall be 
to be making my own way ! I must cultivate 
dignity this year, it seems, so that I shall be suf- 
ficiently impressive in a school-room.” 

When the callers were all gone and the servants 
were closing the house, Janet in the library told 
Mrs. Garth of the principal’s promise. “You 
have been very good to me,” said Janet, “ and have 
held me up and helped me along, and soon I shall 
be able to go alone. Do you remember that morn- 
ing I walked ten miles to come and see you ? and 
that other day, when we were all making sorghum- 
syrup, and you stopped and laughed ?” 

“ David has never quite forgiven that laugh,” 
said Mrs. Garth, who was cutting the leaves of a 
magazine; “but some day he will. I see that 


How Father Caine Home. 263 

day coming. I have gone through the world 
with a heart like those ancient masks that were 
made one side laughing, the other side crying. 
The pathos of life would have killed me or driven 
me insane if I had not been able to see the com- 
edy running alongside it. I am going to sit up a 
while ; the doctor is not likely to be at home be- 
fore two o’clock, and it is only eleven.” 

Janet went up stairs. She took off the pretty 
silk dress with the lace ruffles, and the little cairn- 
gorm pin given that day from Ailsa’s treasures; 
then she put on a cambric wrapper and let down 
her hair. Her fingers moved very slowly ; she 
was thinking. Presently she knelt down by her 
trunk, opened it, and, searching under the con- 
tents at the very depth, pulled out an old book — a 
soiled, ragged, paper-covered book, with the back 
and the last two leaves missing. She smoothed 
out the rumpled corners, and smiled whimsically 
as she looked at the large black letters on the 
yellow cover: “The Ranger’s Bride.” Then, 
book in hand, she went slowly down stairs, .say- 
ing, “ Now that I am no longer a child, I must 
put away childish things,” 

Mrs. Garth was still reading by the library 
table, but, as the June night was cool, she had 
kindled the wood fire always kept laid in the 
hearth-place. She looked up with a smile as 
Janet came back: 


264 


Ragweed. 


“ Too excited to sleep ?” 

Janet sat down on a stool at her friend’s feet : 

“ I have brought you — my cousin Ida !” 

“ Ah ! is the mystery of Cousin Ida to be re- 
vealed at last ? I have heard less and less of her 
for two or three years.” 

“Yes; I suppose David thinks she is dead and 
buried long ago; but she has existed until this 
present time. Now she is to be cremated.” 

“ I suppose you have outgrown her, as children 
outgrow their dolls.” 

“ I imagine so. She did me good when I had 
few things that were really good. You see, it was 
this way : my mother had been a very kind, quiet, 
neat, gentle woman, and I think my natural taste 
was for all that was refined and beautiful. Those 
Beals people made me wretched ; their noise, dirt, 
vice, and quarrels filled me with loathing, and shame 
that I lived with them. Our squalor and degrada- 
tion hurt me terribly. At school the girls some- 
times showed great contempt for me and my home, 
and often, when they could not boast much in their 
own behalf, they would tell of aunts, sisters, or 
cousins who lived in town or in the city, and had 
very elegant homes and fine clothes, and showed 
their refinement by never doing anything useful. 
One day I found this book on the road. I loved 
to read, and had no books. I often stayed at 
the school-house and read the readers and geog- 


How Father Came Home. 265 

raphies and histories through, I thought this 
book was a great treasure, and I used to go to the 
woods or up into the barn — anywhere to get away 
from the Beals family — and read it. I read it 
dozens of times. The heroine is a rich girl named 
Ida who finally marries the ranger — at least, I 
suppose she does, for the concluding leaves are 
torn off just where she ‘lifts her heavenly eyes to 
the ranger’s face and drops into his arms, exclaim- 
ing, “ Yes !” ’ I never could quite understand why, 
at that critical moment, my cousin Ida did not 
maintain her perpendicular. I should have re- 
spected her more if she had not toppled over. 
That was the only flaw in my cousin Ida’s con- 
duct. From intensely admiring Ida, and wishing 
that I were she or were like her, or that she were 
my relation, I proceeded to arrange a relationship, 
and adopted her for my cousin. Then I not only 
had some one very splendid to boast of, but she 
was really company and consolation for me, as a 
doll is to younger children, while I measured all 
about me by her daintiness, elegance, and ultra 
refinement, and so I disliked the Beals . manners 
more and more, and was saved from being injured 
by them. I think this imaginary Cousin Ida did 
me much good : she kept up my ambition and 
self-respect, gave me a pattern which at least had 
the virtue of being something finer than I was 
myself, and harmlessly occupied much of my 


266 


Ragxvced. 


thinking. David never took any stock in Cousin 
Ida ; David is intensely realistic.” 

“ And now what is to become of her ?” asked 
Mrs. Garth. 

“ I am going to perform her funeral here and 
now. That fire in the hearth shall be her funeral- 
pyre. Cousin Ida has served her day.” 

Janet went smiling to the fire-place, and, kneel- 
ing on the rug, laid her book on the red coals. In 
a few moments nothing remained of Cousin Ida but 
“ smoke, ash, and a tale — perhaps not even a tale,” 
as saith Marcus Aurelius in his “ Meditations.” 

Janet’s ideal had drifted gently back into that 
land of shadows whence it had emerged to form 
for a season part of her life. 

What of Sis Gower’s dream? What of her 
ideal father? 

It was mid-winter, and bitterly cold. Janet was 
away at the normal ; Bruce was in town ; “ Miss ” 
was living with Ailsa for the time. Only Sis, 
Lola, and Pam were at their little home. Sis 
was as busy as ever, trying to put by a little 
money. That was hard work with three to feed 
and clothe, with only the help of Pam’s chance 
wages and three dollars a month contributed by 
Sikey. 

One raw, sleety afternoon, a miserable, slouch- 
ing man crept into the caboose of a freight-train, 
helping himself to a ride, “We can’t take pas- 


Hozu Father Came Home. 267 

sengers,” said the conductor ; but the man replied 
that he was just out of the hospital, had no money, 
and must get to his folks. His appearance bore 
out his tale, and, this being a branch road, where 
generally every man did that which was right in 
his own eyes, he was not only permitted to remain 
in the caboose, but the brakeman shared his sup- 
per with him, and the engineer, when they reached 
the town, handed him a half dollar, saying, “ It 
will get you a night’s lodging. It’s turning very 
cold. You cannot lie out.” 

The man, with his hands thrust into his pockets 
and his head bent, tramped through the streets 
under the electric lights, for it was now dark. He 
came at last to the court-house square. Across 
it lay the wide road that led out of the town, over 
the hill beyond the gully, and then across the level 
prairie to his home. On the corner of the square 
was a well-lighted building which had for its sign 
a barrel made of cubes of colored glass from be- 
tween which shot flames. The man knew that 
sign : it had often allured him in other days. He 
had spent his own earnings there, but that had 
been little. He had spent his wife’s earnings and 
savings there : that had been more. He had sold 
there whatever he could carry out of his house. 
Straight as the animalculae drift into the vortex 
caused by the whirling, whipping ciliae of the bar- 
nacle, so this wreck of a human creature drifted 


268 


Ragweed. 


into the doorway under the flaming barrel, and 
sat down behind the stove. 

Some of the hangers-on eyed him ; some said, 
“ Howdy, stranger?” some turned their backs. 

“Ain’t there nobody here that knows me ? I’m 
Jim Gower.” 

“Great governor! You Jim Gower! Us’t to 
live up near the river ! Thought you was dead 
long ago. Most of the fellows you us’t to run 
with is gone. Had bad luck ’bout livin’, some- 
way.” 

“ Where’s Dake, who us’t to keep this saloon ?” 

“ Fell dead sev’ral year back — sold all his things 
out.” 

“Give us something stiff; I’m cold,” said Jim 
to the bartender. 

As he drank his liquor he asked, “ Know any- 
thing ’bout my folks, any of you ?” 

“ Saw one of your boys in las’ stock-sale day, 
lookin’ pretty peart.” 

“ His gal keeps the house. I’ve hear tell,” said 
another, “ an’ does for the young ones. They’re 
a-flyin’.” 

“ Give us another glass. Ef I’ve got to walk 
out there, I need suffin to put heart in me,” said 
Gower. 

“You’d better wait till daylight; maybe then 
you can ketch a ride.” 

But with increasing drinks Gower became stub- 


Hoiv Father Came Home.. 269 

born. Go he would, that very night. Yet he 
lingered until it was about time for the place to 
close, and still the night grew colder and darker. 

“ Since you will go,” said a big farmer who tar- 
ried also till the last, “ you may mount up behind 
me, and I’ll give you a lift for three miles; my 
horse can carry double till my road turns off.” 

When, at the cross-roads, the farmer bade Jim 
dismount, he advised him to go rapidly on his 
way, and not sit down. If he found the journey 
too hard, he’d better knock up some house and 
get lodged for the night. 

Jim went on — briskly for the first mile, slower 
the second, dragging heavily the third, cold, cdld, 
fairly crawling the fourth. He was in a little belt 
of woodland. He scraped some leaves and twigs 
together, and, striking a match, made a little fire. 
He sat by it for an hour. Then, somewhat warmed 
and rested, he drank the remains of a bottle of 
brandy he had in his pocket, ate a crust that had 
remained from the brakeman’s supper, and then 
heavily pursued his way. 

His little flash of warmth and strength failed : 
he stumbled along, gasping, his breath coming in 
choking sobs ; he fell ; he picked himself up and 
stumbled on.' He clung to a fence, leaning over 
it for support, then, with a last flicker of resolu- 
tion, tore himself away and went on. He fell and 
could not rise, and then he crawled, catching by 


270 • Ragweed. 

roots and grass tufts and brush to pull himself 
along. 

Up again and on ; and now the night is wearing 
away, and the intense cold that precedes the dawn 
has come. He must give it up. But, just as he 
is about to drop down, he notices, dark against 
the dull gray of the sky, three sharp black sil- 
houettes, and recognizes them as the poplars that 
mark the home of “ Mis’ Jonsing down by the 
brook.” He is then only a third of a mile from 
his own home, which means bed, fire, food. The 
sight revives him. He goes on. Each step is 
an agony, and each next step seems an impos- ‘ 
sitiSlity, 

Before the gate of Ailsa Crathie, which he be- 
lieves to be the empty “ stage-house,” he finally 
falls, and cannot rise, his legs are so numb and 
weak. But he crawls and rolls and creeps and 
drags himself on. In this horrible night his wife’s 
martyrdom is avenged. If Gower had ever shown 
such persistency in combating his sin as now in 
getting home, he would have been a saved man. 

His children sleep safe and warm in their beds, 
and now he has arrived, and finds the gate open 
or he could not have entered it; he crawls in 
and tries to call, but his voice is gone and his 
tongue is paralyzed in his mouth. His extended 
arms are on the threshold, his face is on the door- 
stone, his body lies prone along the path; the 


How Father Came Home. 271 

sleet-storm renews itself, and cases the man — or 
what was a man — in ice. This is his shroud. 

In the morning Sis Gower rises and dresses, 
and then opens her front door to look out. Fa^ 
ther has come home. “ How shall I give thee up, 
Ephraim ? How shall I deliver thee, Israel ?” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

SIS ESTABLISHES HER FAMILY, 

“ Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act 
And make her generous thought a fact; | 

Keeping, with many a light disguise. 

The secret of self-sacrifice.” 

H alf of that hard-won reserve of fifty dol- 
lars over which Sis had pondered with 
secret joy went for father’s shroud, coffin, and 
grave. The ragged, sleet-stiffened clothes of that 
poor corpse had not a penny in them. Sis had a 
hearse come out from town with the coffin, and 
then the neighbors came with their carriages, bug- 
gies, or spring wagons, and father had a funeral. 
That was a comfort to Sis. 

“You could see,” said the weeping Sis to Ailsa 
and “ Mis’ Jonsing down by the brook,” “ that he 
had been awful sick, and of course that had used 
up his money ; and I know that he had repented 
and loved us all, and wanted to say so and make 
all right before he died, or he would not have 
tried so terribly hard to reach us. Oh, I am sure 
he had come to be a good man, and would have 
been a blessing to us all if he had lived longer.” 

272 


Sts Establishes her Family. 


273 


“ Weel, lassie, ye can leave him wi’ God : there’s 
nane wiser an’ kinder,” said Ailsa ; “ an’ beyond 
the bounds o’ this warl’ we canna go — not even 
wi’ our best an’ dearest.” 

Sikey and David knew the other side of the 
story : they had heard about that evening in the 
town. However, they made it clear to everybody 
that Sis was not to be told of it, and so a merciful 
veil of silence was drawn over those closing hours, 
and Jim Gower passed^ out of the thoughts of his 
former neighbors. 

Sometimes David mentioned him to Ailsa. He 
did so one Sunday evening in the spring. “ Poor 
Sis !” he said ; “ she took a lot of comfort to-day 
out of that sermon, ‘ There is joy in heaven over 
one sinner that repenteth.’ She is sure her father 
was a great penitent. He wasn’t, if I know any- 
thing about it, but he had need to be, you just 
bet !” 

“ We all hae,” said Ailsa. 

” But he was meaner than other folks. I never 
told you a trick of his that ‘ Mis’ Jonsing down 
by the brook ’ told me of. Before he came, I 
thought he might get back halfway better, and I 
wouldn’t let you know what a mean scamp he 
really was. Mis’ Gower had a sewing-machine 
that she earned herself, and she needed it bad 
enough, with that raft of children to sew for ; and 
sometimes she took in sewing. Well, one day 
18 


Ragweed. 


274 

when she was off working for Mis’ Gage, Jim traded 
off that machine to some movers for an old gun. 
He wanted a gun to shoot quails. Mis’ Jonsing 
said Mis’ Gower was near heart-broken ’over that ; 
and the gun was a just judgment on Jim — and 
served him right, too ! — for it wouldn’t go off 
half the time, and when it did, it was likely as 
not to kick Jim over; and if it didn’t, it never 
shot anyways near the mark. Mis’ Jonsing says 
that it wouldn’t hit the side of the barn if ’twas 
aimed at it, an’ she ’lowed she wouldn’t have been 
’fraid to stan’ in front of it when it went off, ’less 
Jim was aimin’ at the top of one of them popple 
trees — then mebby it might hit her.” 

David seldom discoursed to anyone but Ailsa 
or Sis ; for the most part he was a silent fellow. 
His speech, however, was intermittent, like the 
ebullition of the geysers in the Yellowstone Park, 
and sometimes to one of these intimates it broke 
forth freely. 

Here Nathan Barber came in : “ David, there 
was a weeny lamb lame in the leg, an’ I packed 
it home on my shoulders. It wrastled awful to 
git away from me, but I fotch it in, an’ Ike’s tyin’ 
the leg up.” 

“Yes, that’s all right, Nathan; you’re a good 
boy,” said David. 

“Aye, laddie; an’ you min’ that’s the way 
the Guid Shepherd does: he ‘lays it on his 


Szs Establishes her Family. 275 

shoulder,’ ‘ he carries the lambs in his bosom,’ ” 
said Ailsa. 

“ Eh ?” said Nathan Barber, stupidly. “ Well, 
old Mose Barr ain’t a very good shepherd; he 
shied a rock at a sheep.” 

“ So ? I’ll shy something at him if he does 
that again,” said David, rousing himself. 

“ I told him you’d be after him if he didn’t 
round up them sheep easier,” quoth Nathan, bust- 
ling out to the folds. 

“ He ain’t half bad, ain’t Nathan,” said David ; 
” if he’s well looked after he’ll make a fair chap. 
He knows he has to work, and he don’t lie very 
often. He’s awful dumb at his books, teacher 
says, an’ I had to promise him a thrashin’ if he 
didn’t learn his lessons. After all, promisin’ the 
thrashin’ didn’t take hold of him half as hard as 
promisin’ that as soon as he could read the Bible 
and newspaper clearly, and write a letter and add 
up accounts a little, he might quit. That much 
he has to know.” 

“Aye, he’ll do. He’s no so canny as'Bruce; he 
steps heavy, and his claes an’ his skin tak to dirt 
uncommon easy ; he speaks away high oop in his 
heid, and he stumbles aBoot clumsy, an’ is aye 
too fond o’ clishmaclaverin’. Bruce steppit light, 
an’ was aye spotless clean, an’ his voice was sweet, 
soundin’ way down in his throat.” 

“ You can’t expect this one to be like Bruce,” 


276 


Ragweed. 


said David with pride. “ Bruce is a Hume, and 
this one is a Beals. But Nathan works hard, and 
so gets dirty, while Bruce had no more call to get 
dirty than if he was always sitting up on a gilt- 
edged cloud looking on. Nathan don’t pull up 
seedlings when he weeds, and he has a real knack 
with sheep and horses. I reckon that’s the way 
folks are made, Aunt Ailsa — some for one thing 
and some for another.” 

“ Aye, lad ; there’s a path made to fit the meas- 
ure of ilka foot the Lord sends intil the warld. 
The prophet Hosea says, ‘ The ways of the Lord 
are right, and the just shall walk in them, but 
transgressors shall fall therein.’ It is only a just 
man, David, that can walk in a right way : the 
way an’ the man maun fit, an’ God’s way an’ 
God’s child are made for ilk ither. But, laddie, 
what is peace an’ life to the just is apt to be a 
savor o’ death to the unjust, an’ transgressors fall 
even in the way whaur ither men would walk 
safely. It is the old story, David : ‘ Can two walk 
together unless they be agreed ?’ ” 

David rose up to go to the yards to see to the 
feeding of the sheep. He heard the cries of the 
woolly mothers and their children as they came 
over the hill, hurrying toward the long troughs 
where the nightly rations of meal were served out. 
As he passed Aunt Ailsa his big brown hand 
rested lovingly on her shoulders. There was the 


Sts Establishes her Family. 277 

love of a mother and son between these two, and 
Ailsa, lifting her eyes from the big Bible lying on 
her knees, blessed God who had given her this 
staff for her old age. 

But as yet the hardy Scotchwoman did not feel 
old. She measured the flight of time by its marks 
on others rather than by its marks on herself. The 
children were no longer children, the Hume farms 
were now the finest in the country, and the yearly 
increase of their surplus in bank caused David 
and Ailsa to be looked on in the town with great 
respect. 

“ Everybody calls me Mister Hume now-a-days,” 
laughed David to Aunt Ailsa, one day when he 
had come back from shipping wool. “ My title is 
due to our good circumstances, I reckon.” 

“ Aye, lad, there’s Scripture for that ; it is writ- 
ten, ‘ For men will praise thee when thou doest 
well for thyself’ ” 

David pulled off his best hat and his riding- 
gloves, and gave a glance toward the horse that 
Nathan Barber was leading round to the barn. 

“ Hi ! you Nathan,” he cried ; “ see that you 
don’t forget yourself and give that horse anything 
to eat while he’s warm.” 

“ I won’t,” cried Nathan ; “ guess I know ’bout 
horses.” 

“ Guess you know ’bout everything since you 
got to be ten years old,” said David. — “ Aunt 


278 


Ragzveed. 


Ailsa, Mrs. Garth says that Bruce is ready for 
college, and he is only fourteen ! She says she 
never saw anything like the way he goes ahead 
at his books ! Dr, Garth says to let him enter ; 
he is stout and strong as a boy can possibly be,” 

“ You called on Mistress Garth ?” 

“ Yes, indeed I did ! and Turk came to the door 
with a ‘Please walk into the parlor, Mr. Hume;’ 
and then down came Mrs. Garth : ‘ I’m ever so 
glad to see you ; I want to talk to you about 
Bruce, David. You don’t want me to call you 
“ Mr. Hume,” do you? You folks have come to 
be like my own family. It is nine years now since 
our lives have run along together,’ and she gave 
me her hand and laughed ; and I didn’t mind the 
laugh as I used to, and I said, ‘ Yes, it is nine years 
since you found us making sorghum molasses with 
borrowed capital ;’ and then we both laughed.” 

” Aye ; she comes in wi’ a laugh an’ goes out 
wi’ a laugh, an’ brings summer weather where’er 
she goes. Did ye spier after Janet?” 

“Yes; I didn’t see her, for it was school-hours, 
but Mrs. Garth says Janet is doing fine. She likes 
her boarding-place, and she makes a first-class 
teacher, and she is busy in the church, and Mrs. 
Garth says she’s a credit to us all. And Saturday 
week will be Janet’s twenty-first birthday, and Mrs. 
Garth invites us all to dinner. She and the doctor 
mean to give Janet a watch.” 


Sis Establishes her Family. 279 

Somebody else was also twenty-one that Sep- 
tember — namely, Sikey Gower. Mr. Johnson gave 
Sikey a two-year-old colt for a birthday gift. 

“ You’ve been with me ten years, Sikey, and I’d 
be glad if you’d stay another ten. I hardly know 
how I’d get on without you,” he said. 

“ We’ll think about that,” said Sikey, who was 
to dine at home with Sis and the younger three. 

After dinner, Sikey, who had on a brand-new 
“ store suit,” remarked that “ he’d go over and call 
on Widow Munson.” 

“ You mean Della, don’t you,” said Lola, pertly. 

Sikey found Widow Munson and Della in their 
front room. Widow Munson had crutches by her 
chair, having suffered from a paralytic stroke and 
being no longer able to oversee her farm. Della 
sat by the window sewing, 

” Land-a-mercy, Sikey ! how dandy you look !” 
said the widow. 

“ It’s my birthday, and I’m celebrating,” said 
Sikey. “ Sis gave me a dinner, and Mr. Johnson 
gave me the bay colt.” 

” Well, I’ll ask you to tea. What are you going 
to do now — go on just as you have?” 

“ I don’t know. Tom Gage says if he was me 
he’d go West and strike out for a fortune.” 

“Bah!” said Widow Munson; “you’re much 
more likely to find a fortune by sticking to work 
where you are,” 


28 o 


Ragweed. 


“ Sis would hate to have me go — though Sis 
never puts what she wants first — and I’d hate to 
leave the folks, dreadful bad ” — and Sikey looked 
askance at Della, and Della looked out of the cor- 
ner of her eye at Sikey. 

“ How much have you laid up, Sikey?” asked 
Mrs. Munson. 

“Two hundred dollars. You see. I’ve helped 
Sis some — three dollars a month. Didn’t seem 
right to leave Sis to take care of the family all 
alone.” 

“ And I s’pose you’ve a right to your share of 
the place — the house and ten acres ? There’s six 
of you.” 

“ The house isn’t worth fifty dollars. I plumb 
wonder it don’t fall down ; and I’ll never claim any 
of that bit of land. Let the girls have that, or Sis, 
for if Sis hadn’t held it together I reckon it had 
been lost long ago.” 

“ That’s so,” .said Widow Munson, slowly ; “ Sis 
has been a mighty good girl to you all, and I don’t 
account she’s laid up much. 

“ With what I’ve helped, and Pam’s been earn- 
ing right smart for a year. Sis has put by a hun- 
dred dollars. But, land! there’s Lola teasing for 
Sis to lay out that, and twice as much more, on 
her.” 

“ Lola’s getting clear ahead of herself,” said 
Mrs. Munson, sternly ; “ she thinks nothing’s good 


Sis Establishes her Family. 


281 


enough for her because she happens to have red 
curls and black eyes and dimples and red cheeks. 
I have seen other folks that looked as well, to my 
thinking.” 

“ So hev I,” said Sikey, with great cordiality, 
fixing his gaze on Della. ” But, if Lola isn’t 
worth much for work. Miss will make up for her: 
she’s Sis all over agin ! There ain’t nothin’ hardly 
that little trick can’t do ! Mis’ Jonsing down by 
the brook allows, at a pinch, she’d as leave have 
Miss to help her as any grown woman 'round. 
Miss can bake light bread an’ pies, an’ run the 
sewin’-machine, an’ iron, equal to anything ever 
you saw !” 

“ Della,” said Mrs. Munson, “seein’ it’s Sikey ’s 
birthday, an’ he’s goin’ to stop to tea, s’pose you 
go an’ make some soft gingerbread, an’ have tea 
early, an’ then you an’ him can take a walk ’round 
the place.” 

Della laid by her sewing and retreated silently 
to the kitchen. 

“What makes Del so mumchance?” demanded 
the visitor. “ What’s gone wrong ? ’Taint often 
she sits without a thing to say for herself; usually 
she’s pretty tonguey.” 

“Sikey,” said Widow Munson, with gravity, “you 
an’ Della has been a-courtin’ a right smart while.” 

“ Three year,” said Sikey, briskly. 

“Three year is long enough. Me an’ Munson 


282 


Ragivced. 


courted jes’ three weeks. If you’re goin’ to be 
married, why don’t you be married ?” 

“Why, Mis’ Munson,’’ gasped Sikey, red as a 
poppy, “ ’taint as if I was rich, Della’s been used 
to better than I could give her, for you’re right 
forehanded, an’ twenty dollars a month ain’t much 
to keep up a home on; though nobody thinks 
more of Del than I do.’’ 

“ Well, Sikey,” said the widow, in a motherly 
tone, “ you see how I’m situated. Here’s my 
hundred and fifty acres, good land, all clear an’ 
in order, and day in an’ day out since Munson 
died I’ve looked after the men an’ kep’ all up to 
the mark. An’ here for two months I’m laid by, 
an’ the doctor says there ain’t no hope as I can 
travel ’round spry never no more. Things is goin’ 
by the board. That Job Brown shirks awful now. 
I can’t watch him, and I’d like nothin’ better than to 
bounce him ! I’ve talked with the men ’round here, 
and they say you are a right smart farmer, and not 
a bad habit to bless yourself with ; moreover, I’ve 
knowed you from a baby, an’ your mother before 
you, an’ you an’ Sis take after her. A man will 
lay out his best strokes for his own, an’ all I have 
will go to Della when I’m dead and gone — not till 
then. My idea is, that you’d better give warnin’ 
to Mr, Jonsing down by the brook, an’ I’ll bounce 
Job, an’ you an’ Della can be married, and you 
can can put your shoulder to the wheel here.” 


Sis Establishes her Family. 283 

Sikey listened with open eyes and mouth to this 
astounding proposal. He could hardly believe his 
own good fortune ! Married to Della Munson, he 
would have the wife he wanted, and, moreover, be 
one of the best-situated farmers in the neighbor- 
hood ! 

“ Do you mean it, ma’am ?” he gasped. “ Do 
you think Del will agree to it?” 

“ Del’s all right,” said Widow Munson, calmly; 
“ I talked with her before I talked with you, an’ 
there’s nothin’ to say agin your bein’ married the 
tenth of October.” 

“ I’m sure I’d be ready enough,” cried Sikey ; 
“ and if your farm here don’t look up, it won’t be 
for want of my puttin’ in my best strokes.” 

Then he thought of Sis. He hesitated. “ You 
see. Mis’ Munson, there’s only one thing to think 
of. While I worked for Mr. Jonsing I’ve been 
my own man, an’ took my wages an’ helped Sis. 
Don’t seem quite fair to drop helpin’ and leave 
her to pull along alone with the three of them.” 

“ Why don’t it ?” said the widow, testily. “ She 
took hold with five of you to do for, an’ you only 
eleven. Now Mis’ Jonsing by the brook has Jane, 
an’ Pam is equal to do for himself an’ give Sis a 
little help, an’ you leave them the house an’ lot. I 
don’t see what more they could expect of you.” 

“ That’s so,” said Sikey ; “ and, of course, I 
couldn’t throw myself away for them. Sis 


284 Ragweed. 

wouldn’t ask me to. She’ll be pleased at my 
chance.” 

“ You can get Mr. Jonsing to take Pam, and 
after this winter Pam needn’t go to school, and 
can get fifteen dollars a month, maybe.” 

“ That’s so,” said Sikey. “ Pll speak to Mr. 
Jonsing to-morrow.” 

” But see here,” said Mrs. Munson, who had 
her plan all laid, but preferred to seem to be con- 
ferring benefits rather than receiving them. “ I 
don’t want you to feel any drawings-back, or as 
if you owed more to Sis than you had done for 
her. I will tell you what Pll do. Pm pretty 
helpless, and I can’t do much except sew an’ 
dress vegetables, an’ I need a bit of waiting on. 
You think Sis has too many on her hands? We 
will take Miss. You can bring Miss here when 
you come, and she can go to school for a couple 
of years if she wants to, and you can do -for her as 
well as not. And after she grows up, why, she’ll 
get married, likely. ’Twon’t cost much to keep 
her : she can make over Della’s things, an’ get a 
new gown once in a while. I wouldn’t be stingy 
to her. Pm close, but I like to see everybody and 
everything around me well kept up. I can’t give 
in to keepin’ hired help in the house — idle, dirty, 
wasteful critters ! Miss an’ Della could do the 
work between them, for Della’s a mighty good 
spry worker, just as Miss is.” 


Sis Esiablishes her Faviily. 285 

"Land of liberty!” cried the joyful Sikey; 
" folks always said you had the best head to plan 
that ever was set on shoulders ! With Pam in my 
place at Jonsing’s, and Sis with no one but Lola 
to do for, Sis needn’t complain, sure; she’ll be 
well done by. Do you s’pose Del would mind 
if I went out to see how that soft gingerbread 
is coming on?” 

“ I don’t reckon she would. If she does, she can 
say so.” 

Sikey joyfully intruded his new suit and his 
smiling countenance into the kitchen. Della’s 
gingerbread was in the oven. She was now 
making biscuit. The dough lay on the paste- 
board ; she had the rolling-pin in her hand and a 
patch of flour on her nose. The widow heard for 
a moment or so a murmur of voices and much 
giggling, then shrill defiance in Della’s tone, or- 
dering Sikey out of the kitchen " so she could get 
supper in peace.” 

Sikey, hilarious, retreated to the protection of 
his future mother-in-law. The astute widow no- 
ticed that now Sikey had a patch of flour on his 


nose. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


DAVID ASSERTS HIMSELF. 

HE next day, being Saturday, Miss was 



JL working for Mistress Ailsa Crathie, and 
Lola, somewhat pouting and reluctant, was doing 
the family baking and scrubbing, when Sikey, who 
had hurried through with pressing work, came to 
report to Sis his new prospects. Sis, with clasped 
hands and tears of joy in her eyes, arrested the 
whirr of her sewing-machine and listened in rap- 


ture : 


“ Why, Sikey ! Whoever heard of such good 
fortune ! Such a nice farm and good buildings, 
and stock and machines, and money in the bank, 
and a buggy and a light wagon, and all the same 
as yours ! You ought to be mighty good to Della 
an’ Widow Munson after all that, and I know you 
will, for you’ve always been good to us, Sikey.” 

Self-satisfied as Sikey always was, a little prick 
in his conscience here suggested that he might 
have done more to help Sis. 

“ I think it’s horrid mean, his taking Miss off!” 
cried Lola. “All they want her for is to do the 


286 


David Asserts Himself. 287 

work ; and it will leave me with everything here 
to do, while you sew, Sis ; and I hate work !” 

“ All the same, you ought to do it, like the 
rest,” said Sikey, virtuously ; “ and I couldn’t go 
off and leave both of you for Sis to take care of 
People would have talked.” 

“ I shall feel lost without Miss,” said the elder 
sister, sighing ; “ and, Sikey, you know Widow 
Munson has a pretty sharp tongue and is a great 
driver.” 

” I won’t let Miss be put upon,” said Sikey, 
“ and hard words break no bones. Besides, Miss 
is so good-natured and industrious that she’ll 
never give anyone a chance to fault-find. It will 
be a heap better for her. Sis ; she’ll be right near 
the school-house, and at Widow Munson’s all is 
handy, and full and plenty of everything. She’ll 
have a nice bedroom all to herself — Del’s going 
to give her hers — and Del says she’ll teach her 
to play on the melojun; and when Miss is grown 
up an’ has company, she’ll have a nice sittin’-room 
to see ’em in, like a lady; and she’ll be dressed 
nice, for Del will see to it, and Del has good taste.” 

This explication of the prospects of Miss aggra- 
vated Lola. “Much she will teach Miss to play 
the melojun,” she cried. “ She don’t know only 
to drum herself; and if you call Del’s dressing 
taste, you don’t know what taste is : it’s real 
tacky, and not one bit like town folks !” 


288 


Ragioccd. 


“ Del don’t lay out to play at bein’ town folks,” 
retorted Sikey in wrath ; “ and as for her clothes, 
she isn’t one of those asking to dress above her 
station, and wear things she’s no right to. All Del’s 
things she can pay for with her own money.” 

Sis, finding her family falling out, as often hap- 
pened, hastened to intervene : “ Della is a sweet, 
good girl ; she’s industrious and lively and pretty, 
and everyone likes her. She and you, Sikey, will 
have the nicest home, and as much money as 
anyone about here. Widow Munson is always 
respected ; she is a good Christian, she is a great 
business woman, and there never was a better neigh- 
bor. She has brought up Della well, and she’ll 
do the same by Miss. Miss is in good luck to go 
with you, Sikey, and I know she will like it. I 
know what my duty is as the mother of the fam- 
ily,” added Sis, with her funny little assumption of 
dignity. “ This afternoon I shall take my work and 
go to visit Della an’ Mis’ Munson, and I’ll tell 
them how proud and glad I am, and that I hope 
we’ll all be good friends, and that I’m sure Miss 
is in great luck.” 

“ That’s all right. Sis,” said Sikey ; “ I knew 
you’d do the fair thing.” 

“ Lola,’J remonstrated Sis as Sikey left the house, 
“ I’m ashamed of you, saying unkind things to 
fret Sikey just when this ought to be the happiest 
time of his life. Don’t do it again.” 


David Asserts Hiuiself. 289 

“ Sikey is real selfish, and always was !” cried 
Lola; “ he takes off Miss, who will fully pay her 
way, and then he washes his hands of the rest of 
us, and don’t lay out to help me at all !” 

Sis, not recognizing the fact that selfish people 
always see clearly the selfishness of others, mildly 
combated Lola : “ I’ll do for you all I can, dear, 
and you couldn’t expect to burden Sikey. Every 
young man should be let alone to do as well as he 
can for himself, and if Pam can look out for him- 
self as well as Sikey has done. I’m ready to take 
care of you.” 

” Out here in the country, where houses are 
only in hollerin’ distance !” cried Lola, scornfully, 
“ never seeing anything or going anywhere, wear- 
ing shabby clothes and working all the time ! 
And if Miss is gone, am I to stay here alone 
when you go out for a week or two to nurse 
folks ?” 

“No; I’ll a.sk Mistress Crathie to let you stay 
with her then.” 

“ I won’t do it ; she’s too strict,” said Lola, 
crossly. 

None of the other children had been contuma- 
cious, and Lola gave Sis no end of heartache and 
anxiety. 

Meanwhile, Sikey went to talk with Pam and 
David about his new plans. Pam was working 
with David for a week, getting in the potatoes, 
19 


290 


Ragzveed. 


and Sikey found David and Pam digging, Nathan 
Barber and one of Uncle Mose Barr’s descendants 
picking out the potatoes and piling them in heaps 
to dry, while Uncle Mose, now too old for reg- 
ular work, was sitting on the nearest fence holding 
discourse. 

As soon as he saw Sikey he shouted, “ Whar 
yo’ bin at yisterday, Mas’ Sikey, all dress fit to 
kill ?”* 

“ Out making calls,” said Sikey with dignity. 

“ I laid as mebby yo’ was gwine make ’range- 
ments for leavin’ Mas’ Jonsing down by de brook. 
Yo’ jist stay whar you’re at, Sikey. No good 
nebber come changin’ ; min’. I’m old an’ I tole 
yo’ so,” 

Having thus admonished Sikey, the old negro 
renewed his discourse with David, whom he was 
trying to persuade to take his grandson Ike for a 
regular hand. 

” Drop it. Uncle Mose,” said David, resting for 
a moment on his spade-handle ; “ I lay out to get 
the worth of my money when I hire hands, and 
you know I’d never get it out of that shiftless 
Ike.” 

“That’s so, boss,” assented Uncle Mose, nod- 
ding his gray head. “ I nebber kin quite make 
up my ’pinion whether that nigger is powerful 
weak or powerful lazy.” 

“ He’s lazy,” volunteered Nathan Barber, lift- 




David Asserts Himself. 


291 


ing himself up from his potato-picking ; “ there’s 
nothin’ weak ’bout him when there’s a possum- 
hunt or a break-down.” 

“ Dat’s so,” said Uncle Mose, laughing joyfully 
at this view of the prowess of his descendant; 
“but Ike alius hes bin powerful unwillin’ to do 
any work.” 

When David heard the story of Sikey’s good 
fortune, and that he and Miss were soon to betake 
themselves to the Munson farm, his big eyes 
shone with joy, 

“ Mr. Jonsing says he’ll take you in my place, 
Pam,” said Sikey ; “ and if you’ll do as well as I’ve 
done for him, who knows but you’ll have as good 
a stroke of luck by and by.” 

“ Widders ain’t so plenty,” quoth Pam ; “ but 
I’ll tell you what I mean to do as soon as I’m a 
man grown : I’ll work for Mr. Jonsing, and I’ll 
farm our ten acres for myself, and I’ll take care 
of Sis and keep her like a lady. Sis is twenty- 
three years old, and she looks older, and she’s 
never had a holiday or a real rest-day in all her 
life ! Mis’ Gage says that Sis was two year old 
when you were born, Sikey, and she began to 
take care of you and watch over you right off, 
and she did the same for all the rest of us, and 
she got crooked luggin’ us about when we was 
babies ; and Mis’ Gage says if it hadn’t been for 
Janet Hume teaching Sis gymnastics, and how 


292 Ragweed. 

to keep straight and take care of herself, she’d 
have died with consumption by this time. There’s 
going to be an end before long, of Sis killing her- 
self with work, you bet !” and Pam returned to his 
potato-digging with exceeding vigor. 

That evening, David went over to see Sis. She 
had returned from her visit to the widow Mun- 
son, and felt very much elated over her kind re- j 
ception and the promises Mrs. Munson had made 
about Miss. 

“ So there’s going to be a wedding at your 
home, Sis,” said David. “ Seems to me you are 
doing quite a stroke of business, getting three of 
your family settled at once.” 

“ Isn’t it good !” cried Sis, so happy that she 
forgot to get out any work, but for once sat with 
her hands in her lap. 

“ Where’s Lola ?” asked David. 

” She and Pam went to singing-school. I get 
Pam to go to all such places with her, because 
Lola is so discontented and uneasy. That worries 
me a good deal, David. I never had that trouble 
with the others. They always took what came to 
them, and were thankful, and didn’t fret for what 
they couldn’t have. Not that I complain of Lola. 
She is a lovely girl, and real good, but she’s set 
her heart on having things she can’t get. You 
see, she keeps thinking about the good chances 
Janet and Bruce have had, and it makes her dis- 


David Asserts Himself. 293 

satisfied. I tell her she must take what the Lord 
sends, and Mistress Crathie to-day told her to 
take to heart that verse, ‘ Rest in the Lord, and 
wait patiently for him but Lola is at an uneasy 
age. I suppose she’ll outgrow it, and settle down 
by and by.” 

“ See here. Sis,” suggested David ; “ I didn’t 
come over here to talk about Lola. Two years 
ago I asked you to marry me, and you wouldn’t 
hear to it ; you said you had your family on your 
hands, and you must see to them. A year ago I 
asked you the same, and you made the same an- 
swer; and when I told you I would help you to 
look after your family, you wouldn’t hear to it. 
You said the Lord had laid the care on you, and 
not on me, and you wouldn’t shirk your duty. It 
made me sick. Sis, to see you wearing yourself 
out caring for so many, and a great hulking fellow 
like me without any burdens at all. Now, look 
here. Sikey, Miss, and Pam are all provided for 
at a stroke. I ask you to marry me. There’s 
only you and Lola, and I’m equal to taking care 
of you both. Perhaps at my home Lola would be 
better suited than here. She could have Janet’s 
room, which is pretty nice, and we’ll get a good 
sitting-room or parlor, or whatever you call it, 
that might suit her ideas. If it’s school in town 
for a term or so that she’s crazy for, perhaps we 
can manage that — anything to get her suited; 


294 


Ragiuccd. 


and you’ve worked yourself to death long enough. 
Pam was talking about that to-day.” 

‘‘ Pam’s such a good boy !” cried Sis ; “ he is so 
fond of me, and so kind ! He never lets me cut 
or bring in an armful of wood, and he draws all 
the water, and — ” 

“ He’s known for a long while that he’d have 
me to reckon with if he didn’t do all that,” said 
David, shaking his big head. “ But, all the same, 
Pam has a good heart, and does his duty. But I 
didn’t come here to talk about Pam, Sis. Will 
you and Lola come over to my house as soon as 
Sikey is married ? Aunt Ailsa would be mighty 
glad to have you there, Sis.” 

“ No, David ; I can’t come. My work here is 
not all done. I have Lola to look after, and Lola 
is not easy to manage. I know she is not the kind 
of girl that would make it real pleasant for Mis- 
tress Crathie, and Mistress Crathie is getting old. 
Pve got too much pride, maybe, David, but I can’t 
go to your house and take my sister with me.” 

“ It’s what Sikey is doing,” said David. 

“ Miss is a different girl : she’ll more than pay 
her way. If I am to have trouble with Lola, I’ll 
have it to myself. My mother left the children to 
me, and I must do my duty by them all, to the 
very last one.” 

“ She left you all to me : I saw it in her eye,” 
quoth David ; “ and I tell you. Sis, I’m not going 


David Asserts Himself. 


295 


to stand this nonsense very much longer. If you 
won’t take care of yourself, I’ll do it for you and 
David went home to get sympathy from his aunt 
Ailsa. 

. A year went on quietly after that — a year of 
prosperity in which even Sis Gower shared, and 
wherein, by Pam’s help, she laid up fifty dollars. 
Lola had submitted to the inevitable, and behaved 
pretty well under protest until in June Mr. Gage’s 
son Hiram, who had been away for two years, liv- 
ing with his uncle and attending school, returned 
home. 

In about three days after Hiram’s return the 
childish friendship between Lola and himself 
was renewed in a vigorous manner. Lola found 
a daily errand to do at Mrs. Gage’s, and was very 
diligent in her visits to Della and. Miss, and from 
all these calls Hiram indefatigably escorted her 
home. In the evening Hiram brought his accor- 
dion and played tunes, and he and Lola sang, and 
he taught Lola to play the accordion. Lola and 
Hiram also sat on a bench in the front yard, or 
even commodiously on the wood-pile, and Hiiam 
read poetry and novels to Lola. Sis became ex- 
ceedingly uneasy, and with tears in her eyes 
asked Ailsa what she would better do abo.ut it. 

“ Lola is not sixteen, and Hiram is nineteen, and 
he’ll go off and forget her and break her heart 1” 
she mourned, 


296 Ragivccd. 

“ Hiram isn’t the forgetting kind,” said David, 
“ and Lola isn’t the heart-breaking kind. Let them 
alone; they are enjoying themselves and doing no 
harm to anyone.” 

One day at the close of August, Lola made 
known to Sis very clearly what was to be done 
about it. Lola was as tall as Sis, much stouter, 
rosy, bright-eyed, and curly headed — a very pretty 
girl, withal willful. She sat down by Sis, and, tak- 
ing her hand, began : 

“ Now, Sis Gower, pay attention to me. I am 
going to tell you something fine. Hiram Gage 
doesn’t mean to stay here and be a farmer; he’s 
got a place in the bank in town, and he’s going to 
it next week, and he’s going to be a banker, and 
live in town all his life !” 

Sis privately felt relieved and thankful. 

“ And, Sis — we’re engaged !” 

“Oh, Lola!” 

“ Why not ? And we’re going to be married 
in two years from now, when I’m eighteen and 
Hiram is twenty-one.” 

“ Unless you change your minds.” 

“ We won’t change. This is a positive, solemn 
engagement, and it was made yesterday at Mr. 
Gage’s, and Mr. and Mrs. Gage know it, and they 
both kissed me and said it was all right.” 

“ Oh, Lola I” cried Sis ; “ and you never told me 
till now !” 


David Asserts Himself. 297 

“ Why should I tell you till it was all settled 
and I knew what I wanted you to do ? You can 
see for yourself, Sis, how well Hiram has been 
educated, and if he goes to live in town two years, 
and I stay out here, getting awkward and not 
learning anything, I will be gawky, and he’ll be 
ashamed of me. Mrs. Gage herself said I ought 
to have two years in school if I’m going to town 
to live among folks, and I told her I would, sure.” 

“ Oh, Lola dear ! how can it be done !” 

” It can, because it has to be ; and I’m going to 
show you how. School, with music — for I must 
learn some music to be like folks. Sis — will cost 
two hundred a year. Now, you have one hun- 
dred and fifty laid up, and you can sell the cow 
and our three pigs for the other fifty, and that will 
pay for one year. I have twenty dollars in my 
box that I have saved up for two or three years, 
and I can get Sikey to give me twenty more, and 
that will be enough for clothes and books. May- 
be in vacation I can earn a little something for 
myself.” 

“ But, Lola, all that would only be for one 
year.” 

“ Yes, but in that year you and Pam could 
save up something more for me. Besides, Sis, 
Mr. Gage says our house and land are worth 
eight hundred dollars. Sikey and Jane are out 
of it, and that leaves the other four of us two 


298 


Ragivccd. 


hundred each, and I will sell my part out to 
Pam if he’ll earn or borrow two hundred for me 
for that second year,” 

” But, Lola, Lola ! There will be clothes and 
books, and then when you’re married you’ll want 
some good clothes if you are going to town, and 
you won’t be satisfied with less.” 

“ It will come some way. I’ll borrow it of 
some one, or get Miss to let me sell out her share 
to David Hume, or something. You make up 
your mind, Sis, I’m going to school to learn how 
to look and act and dress like town folks ; and if 
you refuse me that hundred and fifty, and won’t 
sell the cow and pigs, you are just as mean as 
can be !” 

“You can have all I have, an’ welcome,” said 
Sis, who, like the eider duck, had become accus- 
tomed to stripping herself for her family ; “ but, 
Lola, I’m going to see to two things : in the first 
place. I’m going to talk with Mr. and Mis’ Gage, 
because, if you should spend all that we have in 
going to school where you do not mean to learn 
really useful things that would be a support for 
you, and then Hiram should look on the promise 
as all child’s play, that would be very terrible ; 
and I’ve heard of such things.” 

Lola tossed her curls disdainfully. 

“ And then, Lola, if you are going to school, it 
shall be to a boarding-school — not board in town 


David Asserts Himself. 299 

and be a day- pupil, and not in this town, where 
Hiram will be, either. You would be wanting to 
have calls from him, and sending him notes, and 
neglecting your studies, and breaking rules ; and, 
finally, you’d see so much of each other that 
you’d get tired of your engagement and break it 
off. I’ve heard of just such things.” 

“ Seems to me you’ve heard of a heap of things,” 
cried Lola, angrily. 

“ I’ve had a family to raise, and have had to 
keep my eyes open, and my ears too,” observed 
Sis, primly. ” However, Lola, I’ve just finished 
this work for Mis’ Gage, and I’ll take it over and 
talk with her, so I can know what I’m doing.” 

“ It’s all right,” said Mrs. Gage, frankly. “ Hi- 
ram thinks there is no one to equal Lola, and we 
like her very well ourselves. I don’t think, Sis, 
that Lola has had a fair chance in this neighbor- 
hood. She naturally doesn’t like the country, or 
country ways, or rough work. She isn’t very in- 
dustrious, as things go about here, and so folks 
find fault with her and call her ‘ stuck up ’ and 
idle. I can sympathize with her. When I was 
her age I couldn’t abear farms and farm-work. 
Hiram is the same. I know Lola will make a 
real nice, neat, tidy housekeeper in town, where 
she’s given something to do with. She likes sto- 
ries and music and flowers and pictures, and 
Widow Munson throws that up at her as a sin, 


300 


Ragivced. 


I don’t. She has been hampered and kept at 
what she hates, and has been discouraged, and it 
has made her envious and pettish ; but Lola is 
naturally sweet-tempered, and all that fretfulness 
will pass away when she gets into pleasant sur- 
roundings. I suppose she is somewhat selfish, 
but I’ve said time and again. Sis Gower, that it 
would make anyone selfish to live with you — you 
spoil folks so ! Most girls of Lola’s age are self- 
ish ; the selfishness works out of ’em by the time 
they have a family to do for. You needn’t feel 
afraid that Hiram will change his mind : he won’t. 
Me an’ his pa said they was too young to marry 
now, but they’re to wait two years, and then me 
an’ his pa will buy them a little house in town and 
furnish it. We can afford that. It’s true, as Lola 
told you, she needs a couple of years in school, so 
she won’t be gawky and shamefaced when she 
comes to live in town. J want her to hold up her 
head with the rest. She’s as good as anybody, 
and me an’ Gage is forehanded, and Hiram will 
have it all, an’ he an’ his wife can stand with the 
best. Gage said maybe we’d ought to offer to 
help send her to school, but I said, ‘ No ; I’ve 
heard tell of men educatin’ their wives, but I 
don’t hold to givin’ a man any such claim over 
a woman, nor lettin’ him have that to throw up 
to her some day. She wouldn’t be independent 
enough,’ says I to Gage.” 


David Asserts Himself. 30 1 

“ I should not want you to do it,” said Sis. “ I 
can manage it somehow, and Lola shall start in 
this very September. I am afraid we haven’t 
treated her right.” 

“Why, yes you have. Sis! You’ve just laid 
down and let the whole lot walk over you ever 
since your ma died! You’ve got ’em all settled 
but Lola, and in two years she’ll be settled, and^ 
then it seems to me that you’d better settle your- 
self.” 

“ You shall go to school next term,” said Sis to 
Lola when she went home. “ The first chance 
you get to go to town with anybody, you’d better 
ask Janet to go with you to buy some clothes, and 
I’ll make them for you right off; and you shall 
have my lace collar and cairngorm pin that Mis- 
tress Crathie gave me. Mis’ Gage thinks just as 
I do — that you shouldn’t go to town to school, 
and you ought to board in the school, to get all 
the good of it you can ; and I’m going to write a 
letter all about it to Mrs. Garth to-morrow, asking’ 
-her to choose the school that will be the best for 
what money we have. One year I can be sure 
of, and when the next year comes, perhaps I can 
manage that.” 

And so, finally, from Sis Gower’s once over- 
full nest the last bird had flown. Lola had gone 
to her school, and Sis sat in solitude; the sun was 
setting, and Sis felt very lonely. 


302 


Ragweed. 


Then David came in. “ Sis,” said David, calmly, 
“ three times IVe asked you to marry me, and 
three times you’ve said ‘ No ’ on account of your 
family. I’ve come to ask you again, and it won’t 
do a bit of good for you to say ‘ No,’ for I’m going 
to say ‘ Yes ’ for you. If you think I’m going 
to leave you here alone for two years to work for 
Lola, you’re mistaken. Pam and Sikey and I 
have talked plans over, and we see how we can 
manage for her, and I’ve made up my mind how 
I’m going to manage for you. You’re not going 
to stay here one hour longer. I’ll just lock this 
house and take the key, and you’re coming over 
to Aunt Ailsa, and you’re going to just rest all 
the time and amuse yourself until Thanksgiving, 
and then we’re going to be married. So come 
on ; Aunt Ailsa is waiting for us on the door- 
step.” 


CHAPTER XX. 


ARISE, FOR THIS IS NOT YOUR REST. 

“ Ah, then my soul should know, 

Beloved ! where thou dwellest in noon of day ; 

And from this place of woe 
Released, should take its way 
To mingle with thy flock and never stray.” 

I T was the morning after David in such a mas- 
terful manner had removed Sis from under her 
own roof-tree. David was superintending the 
threshing of his wheat with a hired steam-thresher 
in a field next the road, when up drove a buggy 
with yellow wheels. It was not the buggy which 
had stopped ten years before by the sorghum- 
boiling, but one of its successors, and from it 
beamed Mrs. Garth, in a new fall hat that would 
have done Janet’s eyes good. She beckoned to 
David. He leaped the fence, and, hat in hand, 
stood beside the buggy. 

“ David, what have you done with Sis Gower ?” 
“ I’ve taken what there is left of her to my 
house.” 

“ What ! Is anything the matter with Sis ?” 

“ Only what’s always been the matter. She’s 

303 


304 


Ragivccd. 


clear worn to a frazzle working for her family. 
She’s plumb tired out, and last evening I just 
put my foot down about it and took her home,” 

” And what next ?” 

” The next was,” said David, grimly, “ that I told 
her she was to sit by the window and not do a 
blessed thing; and as we’ve kept Mose Barr’s 
Ida for the last two years to help Aunt Ailsa, I 
didn’t see what Sis would find to do. All the 
same, when I came away, there she was making 
light bread !” 

” And when are you going to be married ?” de- 
manded Mrs. Garth, going straight to the point, 
her eyes raining happy laughter into those of the 
prepotent David. 

“ Thanksgiving day,” said David, stoutly. 

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Garth. “And now, 
David, I have a good plan for Sis. You know, 
entire change is the best of rest, and Sis has never 
had any change, and has never seen anything but 
her own little hard round of work. I know you 
cannot keep her quite idle at your house — she 
would not know how to sit by the window and 
watch the road — and treating her like an invalid 
may make her an invalid. I think, too, that to 
stay at your house now, and be married at your 
house, is not exactly what Sis would like. I’ve 
come to take her to my house, and I want you to 
be married there, and I mean to fit out the bride. 


Arise, for This is Not your Rest. 305 

It will be one of the pleasantest episodes in my 
life to do something for one who has lived only 
to spend and be spent for others. All the little 
pleasures of town life will brighten up Sis, and 
then, when you are married, I want her to have 
a little journey. She should see at least one big 
city. Haven’t you any business to call you to St. 
Louis or Chicago ?” 

“ If going would be a pleasure to Sis, that is 
business enough,” said David. 

“ Now, that’s what I call proper talk,” said Mrs. 
Garth, “ and I want you to come to the house 
and advise Sis to accept my invitation. It will 
not be a great deal of trouble for you to ride 
over to the town every Sunday morning and go 
to church with Sis.” 

When Mrs. Garth told Sis that she had come 
to take her to her house for a visit of two months 
and a half. Sis at first looked surprised and de- 
lighted, then flushed, and presently said, 

“ Why, I can’t go ; I haven’t anything fit to 
wear at your house ” — for whatever little decora- 
tive article of dress Sis had had — collar, apron, 
or handkerchief — had been given to the exact- 
ing Lola, who had taken it calmly with an “ Of 
course, here you don’t need things, but I shall 
need to be like other girls.” 

“What!” said Mrs. Garth, “everything used 
up? That’s so much the better! You and I are 
20 


3o6 


Ragweed. 


going to have the nicest time shopping that ever 
was known. I hear that there is to be a wedding 
Thanksgiving. I propose to have that at my 
house. Come, Sis, surely you’re not one to keep 
people waiting.” 

“ Go, lassie,” said Mistress Crathie ; “ this is the 
Lord’s way for you. Take the pleasure and rest 
from his han’ just as simply as you have taken 
the care and work ; in a’ he is our Faither.” 

That ride in the September sunshine began 
pleasant things for Sis Gower. Mrs. Garth chatted 
merrily, cheered Sis about Lola, and planned won- 
ders for the future. “ And, Sis, I have arranged 
just what it will give me so much pleasure to do 
for you ; and you’ll please take it freely, as from 
one Christian sister to another. I’m going to 
provide your trousseau, and we’ll get it at once, so 
that you can use some of the things at my house. 
I have a dressmaker there now, and she has made 
a tea-gown for you, and I want you to put it on 
to-day, for Janet is coming to tea with you. People 
say the country is ever so much more healthful 
than the town, but I want you to get so fat and 
rosy in town that everyone will revise that opinion. 
You shall rest, walk, ride, do physical exercises 
with Janet, go to bed early, rise at what you would 
call a late hour, and we’ll surprise David and the 
rest of the family with the result.” 

When Sis went up to the pretty room that had 


Aj'tse, for This is Not your Rest. 307 

once been Janet’s, she found laid on the bed not 
only the charming tea-gown, but a store of other 
array — silk ties, slippers, kerchiefs, white goods^ 
gloves — such treasures that at first tears of aston- 
ishment and gratitude came, and then she felt 
very guilty at having things so much prettier 
than dear Lola ; then she wished she dared give 
them to Lola, and then she knew that she must 
not Finally her good sense prevailed, and she 
considered that all this good fortune came to her 
from her heavenly Father, and that, just as she 
had taken comfort and pleasure in providing for 
her “ family,” he found pleasure in sending bless- 
ings to her, and that he wished to see her taking 
her allotment with a happy face. If God sent rest 
and abundance, surely she must get out of them 
all the good that was to be found in them. Who 
knew for what future he was now fitting and 
strengthening her? Toil, self-denial — these had 
been her work for God hitherto; now ease and 
pleasure cheerfully accepted and well used, — these 
were her work also for God. 

Sis proceeded to dress herself in her unaccus- 
tomed splendor, and was just arrayed when Janet 
ran up stairs and tapped at the door. 

“ Do you know me, really, when I am so fine ?” 
laughed Sis. 

“ I’d have to know you by the way you do your 
hair,” said Janet ; ” it is not becoming and is not 


Ragweed. 


in the fashion. Sit right down here before the 
glass, and let me pin a towel about your shoul- 
ders and dress your head properly ; and see that 
you do it in this way yourself hereafter.” 

So Janet was hair-dresser, arranging Sis Gower’s 
head in a simple, pretty style, and meanwhile 
rattling away about what they should do and see 
and hear while Sis was in town. 

“ Really, Sis !” cried Janet when her task was 
done, “ I didn’t know you were so nice-looking ! 
Dear me ! how all this becomes you ! Let me see. 
Stand up. Have you been keeping your head up 
and your shoulders back ? Yes, fairly well. Now 
fold your arms behind you, and go and stand by 
that open window and draw six deep breaths. 
Do that three times a day. Now put that book 
on your head and walk up and down the room 
six times. There ! now you may come down 
stairs.” 

What weeks those were for Sis ! What charm- 
ing drives daily with Mrs. Garth, what evening 
walks with Janet ! Sis found herself wearing 
pretty dresses and new hats and jackets ; she went 
shopping, she discussed patterns, she sat for pleas- 
ant hours reading pleasant books. She visited 
Janet’s school, and went with Turk to see Pope, 
and then to look at the little four-roomed house 
where Pope and Turk were to live when Pope’s 
course at the institution should be ended. 


Arise, for This is Not your Rest. 309 

“ Pope is a real good shoemaker,” said Turk, 
“ and he’s promised work by a man here in town. 
This house, you see, is not far from Mrs. Garth’s 
back gate, and I am going to rise real early, and 
get part of my work done, and our breakfast, and 
then go over to Mrs. Garth’s and do her upstairs 
work, and take the sewing and mending home 
with me. I shall have saved money enough to 
furnish our house, and Doctor Garth is going to 
give me a sewing-machine.” 

Sis Gower fe 4 t that in town she had a very 
lively life. She went to a church fair, a picnic, 
a nutting party, a Christian Endeavor social, a 
King’s Daughters’ entertainment, the missionary 
society and the sewing society, and was three 
times invited out to tea ! In all her life she had 
not known such excess of merrymaking ! 

Each Sunday, when David came to spend the 
day, he found Sis stronger, brighter, her cheeks 
gaining roundness and color, her eyes bright, her 
whole nature expanding as does a flower which, 
having long pined in the shade, is at last trans- 
planted into a sunny place. This mission to Sis of 
Mrs. Garth’s genial, laughter-loving spirit for ever 
wiped out of David’s remembrance the hour when 
she had enraged him by finding “ the Bealses,” 
the sorghum-boiling, and the borrowing so very 
entertaining. After that morning when the Gow- 
ers and the Humes and ” Mis’ Jonsing down by 


310 


Ragweed. 


the brook ” gathered in the Garth parlor, and 
David saw coming down the stairs to meet him 
a happy-faced young woman in a gray Irish pop- 
lin trimmed with velvet, and a gray bonnet with 
a gray plume, he was ready to be Mrs. Garth’s 
devoted servant to the end of his days. 

Sis in all her glory, and Janet, who, to David’s 
mind, was simply sumptuous, did not overpower 
David that day one-half so much as did the Olym- 
pian Bruce, who, emulating his elder brother’s size, 
appeared in a stunning suit of dark-blue cloth, 
dignified, silent, absolutely an fait in all the cere- 
monies of the occasion. David felt as if it were 
altogether too presumptuous even privately to re-‘ 
fleet that that serene, scholarly youth was his own 
brother ! 

Lola was disposed to be a little envious of her 
sister’s fine new trunk, so handsomely filled. 
“ I do not see,” she said to Janet when they 
were alone, after the re.st of the company had 
dispersed, and David and his wife were en route 
for St. Louis, “ why Sis could not have given me 
some of those nice things. Surely I need them 
most. Sis is going to be buried out there in the 
country.” 

“ She would have had no right to give them,” 
said Janet. ” Sis did not buy them : all were a 
present from Mrs. Garth, and it would have been 
quite wrong to give them away. You must put up 


Arise, for This is Not your Rest. 3 1 1 

with what you have, Lola. I am sure you look 
very well.” 

” But you don’t know how much better the 
other girls are dressed than I am ; and they all 
have spending-money, and I never have a cent, 
and it makes me feel dreadfully mean.” 

“ It will teach you economy, self-denial, sympa- 
thy, and many other good things if you use the 
experience well,” said Janet, serenely ; for, as La 
Rochefoucauld well observed, “ We all of us have 
sufficient fortitude to bear the misfortunes of 
others,” and Janet was not particularly galled by 
those stings and arrows of outrageous fortune 
which were torturing poor Lola. 

However, before the time for Lola’s train to 
take her the twenty miles to her school, Janet 
took her down town, bought her a blue-serge 
dress and six handkerchiefs, and gave her five 
dollars to pay for having the dress made. 

“ Lola is certainly a very pretty girl with very 
pretty ways,” said Mrs. Garth to Janet the next day, 
“ and I have no doubt she will be a useful and agree- 
able woman. I really pity her, for it is terribly hard 
for a girl in school to be deprived of so much that 
the other girls have, and her poverty will make all 
her two years in school less plea.sant than might be 
desired. Rut that is part of the appointed discipline 
of life for her, and in some way she needs it and 
it will work good, Yet, as we are not called upon 


312 


Ragiveed. 


to assign discipline to our fellow-mortals or to make 
it heavier, I propose to send her a box at Christ- 
mas that will probably make her quite joyful.” 

While the earth remaineth, seed-time and har- 
vest, cold and heat, summer and winter, shall not 
cease. The serial of the seasons flows on end- 
lessly, and the years reproduce themselves, the 
one like the other, unless disasters befall. 

The next ten years were years of peace and bless- 
ing as they went by, and heaped the snows on 
Ailsa Crathie’s hair, and made her steps totter, 
and bowed her vigorous frame, and dimmed her 
eyes so that even the big print in her Bible was 
uncertain reading. But what then ? That hoary 
head was a crown of glory being found in the way 
of righteousness. She forgot that her steps fal- 
tered, for David’s ever-ready arm was strong. Sis 
was always at hand to read to her ; the hours flew 
past right merrily watching the robust and dim- 
pled children of David and Sis at their play. 

The “ stage-house ” was changed, having a 
handsome front, a wide piazza, and a garden full 
of pleasant things. The old Gower house over 
the way had been enlarged and repaired, and Pam 
Gower and his family lived there, Pam superin- 
tending a mule-raising enterprise for a St. Louis 
firm. Miss Gower was in her own home by 
the river, and Jane Johnson was a tall, pleasing 
girl, the joy of her foster-parents. 


Arise, for This is Not your Rest. 313 

In the town Janet and Lola, each in her own 
home, were neighbors, and Lola frequently con- 
fided to Janet the comfort she took in the thought 
that her own children would not have such a strife 
of mortifications and denials to live through as 
had fallen to her lot. 

“ Sis never seems to care,” said Lola ; “ she is 
prosperous and happy now, and yet she talks as 
freely of her hard early days as if they were pleas- 
ant times. To me their memory is full of a thou- 
sand pricks and stings.” 

“ Sis always accepted her privations, as she 
does her blessings, as from the hand of God,” 
said Janet ; “ and I suppose all were sweetened 
to her by the joy of fulfilled duty.” 

“ I am one of those that believe best when they 
are most prosperous,” laughed Lola. “ There are 
[many fruits that ripen well only in plenty of sun 
and fine weather ; storms do not agree with them. 
The sugar-beet, for instance, will not store up 
sugar in the cold or damp : it needs fine warm sun- 
shine to make it fit for anything. I’m a sugar-beet.” 

“You look more like a rose or a peach,” said 
Janet, smiling at her pretty neighbor. 

“ Now, really, a sugar-beet is a very pretty vege- 
table,” said Lola. “ Did you ever see a field of 
them? It is smooth and pink, and has lovely 
broad, crimpled, light- green leaves, crisp and 
dainty as flowers.” 


314 Ragtveed. 

“ You always see the beauty in things, Lola,” 
said Janet. 

Bruce, a part of the busy world of books and 
learning, had never ceased to be in his heart a 
part of that brave household from which he 
sprung. ^College and university halls had nour- 
ished him and honored him ; foreign lands had 
shown him their treasures. As Ailsa had planned, 
his share of the homestead had been his educa- 
tion ; and David, a prosperous farmer, proud of 
his scholarly younger brother, had gone beyond 
the legal demand in providing for Bruce. Bruce 
had taught and written, and had finally reached 
the point where he reaped his own harvest with 
no niggard hand. 

Whenever Bruce went home for part of a vaca- 
tion there was great joy ; and finally, each year, 
Ailsa took his coming as a blessing she had not 
expected to share again, for she was now very old 
and the end drew near. Bruce, silent as of old, 
sat by her, holding the tremulous hand that had 
been strong to nourish and comfort his childhood. 

“ It has dune me gran’ guid to hae ye here the 
while, lad,” said Ailsa. “ I hae pined for ane mair 
luik at your bonny face.” 

” And it has done me good to see you, aunt. 
The end crowns the work. This peaceful, quiet 
closing of life gives me strong courage for the 
crosses and toils that come before.” 


Arise, for This is Not your Rest. 3 1 5 

“ I am aulcl, auld,” said Ailsa ; “ I hae coom to 
they days when the guid Lord maun tak me oop 
an’ carry me. When we are wee bairnies, an’ 
when our heids are hoar wi’ age, then the Lord 
kens we canna go our lane, an’ he juist folds us 
oop in his arms an’ carries us in his bosom alang 
the way. Mony is the time, Bruce, in Scotian’, 
when I hae gone oot to the fiel’s to luik to the 
flocks, an’ I hae foun’ the wee weak lambie lyin’ 
its lane, an’ I hae happed it oop i’ the neuk o’ my 
pladdie an’ carried it down to the ingle-side to tak 
tent for it ; an’ sae my Shepherd does for me the 
noo. I sit here, lad, an’ I think o’ the far-away 
days, my faither an’ my mither, an’ a’ the auld- 
time folks, an’ my cousin, braw David Hume. I 
canna feel as if I am sae far frae my native Ian’, 
an’ I’m thinkin’ that heaven is my ain countrie, 
an’ I am now near to win in there, an’ so I do no 
feel like a far-awa’ exile ony main” 

It was in such spirit, one golden autumn day, 
when all the corn-land stood thick with sheaves, 
and the fruit was ripe across the orchard rows, 
that Ailsa, sitting in her big chair by the window, 
” fell on sleep.” Her head rested easily against 
the pillow, her hands lay clasped in her lap, a 
smile was on her lips, and the glory of the heaven- 
ly light shone on her white face and her snowy 
hair.' Sweet and serene satisfaction rayed from 
each placid feature, A voice had whispered in 


3i6 


Ragivccd. 


her ears, “ I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee. 
As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I 
comfort you. Fear not.” The next sounds she 
should hear would be the challenge of the great 
resurrection angel’s trumpet awakening the sleep- 
ers in the earth, 

David drew near her with gentle steps, not to 
break her slumber — love’s last idle care ! She 
was keeping that tryst with Death which had 
been made for her the moment she came into 
life. 

This story has been of plain and simple people, 
of common w'ays and of common things ; but 
these are the people, the ways, and the works 
that are in the vast majority and that survive 
and perpetuate the commonwealth. The aristo- 
crat, whether of brain or blood or purse, per- 
ishes; the people continue themselves, and create 
out of their own ranks the aristocrats of the 
future. 

It is “ idle to lock the gates of life against infe- 
riority” in book-people as in real life, for the 
inferiority gains uplift with the passing years, and 
becomes superiority. 

Pam Gower, like Dr. Wheeler, could tell us that, 
even in herds, stalls, and stables, “ The best, in a 
few generations, are wont to become sterile and 
the “ classes ” are renewed from the ” masses,” as 


Arise, for This is Not your Rest. 317 

on the farms racers arise and thoroughbreds are 
improved out of the common stock. Across the 
fertile acres the ragweed grows ; along the newly- 
opened ways of progress the horny hands, the 
inaccurate tongues, the bluff, free-and-easy man- 
ners, thrive and suffer subtle change, and the life 
of the world is for ever renewed. 


THE END. 



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